mexican...

When I first moved to the Center of the Universe (CotU) - New Ark, Delaware - I was excited to learn of a place where one could get "a burrito the size of one's head". This establishment, at the time known as 'PICNIC', offered a lunch-time burrito bar that delivered on that promise. And the price was right - 5.99 got you a Texas-sized burrito and a fountain drink of your choosing. I once held the burrito next to my [rather large] stomach and asked the waitress how she expected this monstrosity to fit inside.

Even the procedure for building one's burrito was incredibly satisfying. One walked in the door to be greeted by an acrylic sneeze guard with a tortilla packing expert behind the counter. On the wall were five tortillas highlighting the choice given in burrito-skin selection - plain flour, roasted garlic and herb, spinach, sun-dried tomato, cheese. There they hung, preserved in lamination, like the rings of the Olympic games, multi-colored and flavored, giving hope to the hungry.

Upon selection of your tortilla, the burrito technician provided further enlightenment on the choices you were given to sate your noshing needs:

Spanish rice or Mexican rice?
Black, Pinto, or Refried beans?
Chicken, steak, pork; pulled or grilled?
Salsa: green, chipotle-orange, pico di gallo, guacamole?
Lettuce, tomatoes, onions, sour cream, cheese?

Any or all of the above to satisfy your growling gut.

Anyway, dear reader, I considered PICNIC to be a well-kept secret. Only a select few, and mostly Mexican or Mexican-American at that (adding to the authenticity of course), seemed to know of the bargain. And when some new proprietors bought PICNIC and renamed it "Sante Fe Grill" I remained unworried because the burrito bar went unchanged.

Well, it turns out that the new proprietors have been the best and worst things to happen to my beloved PICNIC. You see, upon acquisition of their new investment, the owners decided to try for a liquor license. The logic, of course was flawless - after all, what complements an elephant-esque burrito better than a well-mixed margarita?

The new owners seemed to build big on the solid foundation laid by a Wal-Mart shopper sized-burrito bar. The margaritas were fantastic. Delivered in a pint-glass (a FULL pint glass mind you), the frozen 'ritas packed more punch than Evander Holyfield's disembodied ear. Oftentimes, I noted that one ordered the second margarita only to be too drunk to consume it by the time it arrived at the table. On top of that, during happy hour, these MEGA-ritas were only $2.99 in tax-free Delaware dollars.

Begin the downward spiral. Any secret begs to be free - the dirtier the secret the more it screams to be heard. And nothing speaks louder than cheap booze in a college town. The CotU is home to a large state University packed with Jersey flotsam and the less-offensive DE native. It didn't take long for the students to find this gem. Like bloodhounds on the scent of an escaped convict, they slobbered and drooled, clawing their way to a cheap drink. And for a while it seemed like a good thing - a local establishment, locally owned, was getting good business guaranteeing its survival in the kill-or-be-killed world of food service.

However, the sudden influx of capital combined with the obvious opportunity for growth has proved to be PICNIC's Achilles' Heel. Happy Hour, the provider of the bargain-rita, was shaved by an hour on Fridays to take the edge off of the rush. Seating was expanded nearly 100 percent while the now overtaxed kitchen remains unchanged in size. The food quality has dropped significantly as the managerial staff tries to cope with the new supply-and-demand model - sometimes a meal is even missing ingredients as they've "run out for the night".

The reason I bring you this story, dear reader, is as a cautionary tale. You see, even as the food quality has withered, the MEGA-ritas have been a source of constancy. Strong with cheap tequila and thicker than an Old Fashioned Milkshake, their specialty was guarenteed to give you an unforgettable mind and body experience.

Well last night, that last brick in their foundation crumbled. The sting of the wound is still fresh, but I bring forth the story for your sake. After a nice night of climbing at the DRG, some friends and I gathered to relax around some cold pint glasses. Not only was the appearance of our refreshments greatly delayed, but the frozen margaritas arrived as liquid. In addition, mine had some unidentified particles floating around in it. The irony, of course, was that I drank my melta-rita extremely fast only to numb the pain that comes with such a loss. The waiter seemed ambivalent to my woes, and despite the free extra chips he brought in an attempt to rebuy my love... well...

Burn me once, shame on you. Burn me twice... well, we won't get burned again.

a little R & R & R...

Red Rock Rendezvous is an annual gathering of dirtbags in the eastern reaches of the Mojave desert. Some good friends, now living in the West, convinced me to join them in an attempt to shed the soggy ups and downs common to Mid-Atlantic spring weather. The weather was interesting, but we'll get to that.

Silas and John TP.

Like a rock star, I decided to do this over a long weekend - using only a day of vacation. Fly out Thursday night after work, taking the red-eye home Sunday night in time for work on Monday. Unlike a rock star, I slept in a tent that would eventually be blown over in a strange 70 mile per hour wind gust.

Awkward.

To sum it up, we climbed on some sandstone, climbed on some limestone. We led, followed, and top-roped. We hit the Ultraman Wall, the Rescue Wall, the Black Corridor, and some other crap. We drank some beers. I made some loud, drunken disparaging remarks about what activities I would do if given the choice between solving world hunger and doing said activities. We learned from some PROs. We climbed a little sandstone/limestone laminate. We laughed. We drank some beers.

JF playing rope gun on the hard stuff.

The weather was great. Sunny and 70 during the days. At night the mountains would cool and wind would rip out of the canyon over the campground. Between that and the burros braying, sleep was in interesting proposition. It started raining Sunday afternoon, so we had to bail on the climbing and we headed to the Vegas strip.

Desert weather is more fickle than a 7th grade girlfriend.

Heh... lion balls.

And I ran into my dad on the way home.

[open curtains, Monday morning, Just getting off the red-eye with 3 hours of sleep, I'm walking down the ramp from the plane to the airport gate. I turn on my phone. As I go to put it in my pocket it rings.]

ME: Hello?

CALLER: Hi Robert it's Dad.

ME: Hey Pop.

POP: I'm sitting here in the Philadelphia airport and thought I'd call to say hi. I always think of you when I come through here - I know you're in and out of here like food in a bulimic's gut.

ME [look of surprise and amusement on face.]: What gate are you at?

POP: I'm in the Philly airport...

ME: I know. At which gate are you located?

POP: A5, why?

ME: I'm at C24. I'll meet you at Terminal B.

POP: What?

ME: Just walk to Terminal B, wait at the Dunkin' Donuts stand.

[End Scene]

Family resemblance.

Turns out the old man had a layover on his way to OK City. We had about 5 minutes to catch up, laugh, hug, and head on our merry ways. The world is a small place indeed.

PHOTOS HERE.

3 outta 4...

Well, I shit myself today.

Buddy scrounged me up some toilet paper.

15 minutes in, I thought I had to fart. Turns out there was a little "chamois butt'r" waiting on deck. At first it was pleasant: warm, soft, lubricating. But by 2 hours into the ride, my taint felt like I had been squatting on a cheese grater. It was either that or a chamois/saddle incompatibility issue that led me to bail after riding 3 of the parks in the 4 park tour.

Buddy, Matt, and Les teach me how to ride a bike.

At the top of the boundary trail, I decided I'd head back to the car, so Buddy, Matt, Les, and I stopped for a nice beer. Sly Fox Pils. Hoppy, not too sweet. Just what the good lord intended in a canned beer.

Training for SSWC2007.

They also teach me how to drink.

I pulled off at the ranger station in White Clay, where I ran into FFA and her friend Ted. They tell me the rest of the extended crew, also out for their own romp in the woods, are all going to meet up for lunch. So Jan, E-town, FFA, Monkey, Fatmarc, and friend Ted all provided great company and room-clearing conversation while we schooled some burritos. All in all a great day.

FFA leads the way so she can show us how she got her name.

Time to grab the climbing shoes. The day is still young, and the Coatesville rock gym has some bouldering calling my name.

Jenny helped me start the weekend right with a nice after-work stroll on Friday.