Sunday June 15th, 2003
Pinks

I woke up this morning from a dream that I was a drug smuggler in Mexico. The same dream I wake up from every Sunday morning. Actually that's not completely true. I'm not always a drug smuggler, but I am always in Mexico. (Except that rare occasion I'm waiting tables at an Alcapulcos) This is in no small part due to the neighbor behind my apartment fixing his car and listening to Mariachi music at 8am every Sunday.

I got a call from Dan asking if I wanted to go to Pinks for lunch. Lately I've been using the Mc Donald's dollar menu to survive and my wallet wasn't feeling up to it, neither was my stomach. He said he'd pay so off I went.
Now for those of you who don't live in Los Angeles the world famous "Pink's" is a demonic hot dog stand that's been serving masochists for the last sixty years. They serve hot dogs with Hollywood themes like the "“Lord of the rings dog" ”and the "Ozzy Osborne dog." It's another world where phrases like "nutritional content," "sanitation," and "labor laws" have no meaning. Don't get me wrong I love Pinks. The food is amazingly good and I've never seen a line shorter than thirty people waiting any time, day or night. One thing that makes this so amazing is the fact that I have yet to meet a person who can eat Pink's more than once a month.

Words can not describe the Pink's experience. The misty air near the front of the line has a fat content higher than butter. I have a vegetarian friend who drives a mile out of his way to avoid driving by Pink's on his way to work. He learned his lesson after he got stopped one day at the light in front of Pink's and threw up in his car.
In front of us were a college student and his friend from out of town. Listening to him telling his friend what to order and what to avoid sounded more like a sky diving instructor giving last minute advice to someone before their first jump.
I stared at the menu trying to find something that wouldn't hurt me as much as the colon lubricant I knew I would eventually choose to consume. “ Two Mulholland Drive dogs, an order of chili cheese fries, and four cokes.” I've heard long distance runners refer to the good kind of burning you get in your muscles after running several miles. The taste of sweet carbonation washing hot dog, nacho cheese, and bacon down is the closest I'll ever come to that.
There were some women eating at Pink's and I'd like to say I tried talking to one of them. The truth is that just wasn't possible. As some of you may know they recently put up machines that take a photo of your car if you try to run a red light at three different intersections on La Brea. (Conveniently between Pink's and the 101) I think Pink's is the entire reason for it. Luckily we were traveling fast enough that we never got tagged. By the time I reached my apartment the hallucinations had started. I spent the rest of the day watching Futurama and Family Guy re-runs praying to god like a recovering heroine addict.

 

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