Typical Sunday: tamales and twin-turbos


At times I’ve felt as if my manhood is lacking.
Uh…let me clarify that.


Manhood, as in the character trait, damnit. Or as it is portrayed now, in the 21st Century. I don’t have any macho swagger to speak of, I don’t give a fuck about making tons of money or banging models. I don’t even care for blondes that much. And to compound matters, I don’t care for sports at all. Come Super Bowl Sunday, you’re more likely to find me reading a book or surfing the internet or going to see a movie than sitting in front of a big television screen in the company of a bunch of drunken, face-painted dolts. How many hypo-macho strikes is that against me? But, before you shake your head and ask me to show testicular proof, I realized, was reminded, today, that I do have some latent macho tendencies. One in particular. It was pointed out to me earlier this evening as I drove back from a family reunion.


By the way, the family reunion was very nice.
I got to see a lot of my relatives on my father’s side of the aisle and I ate like a complete pig, but it’s all good. I don’t sweat bad diet days. You can’t do that to yourself.


It’s important to allow yourself an occasional dissolute day of gluttony and go with it. Enjoy eating bad and enjoy eating a lot, for a day. Get over it. Resume your normal eating habits tomorrow. You must integrate such built-in flexibility (and self-forgiveness) into your meals or you risk serious dietary implosion. You must yield to your temptations once in a while in order to concurrently assert control and power over them. Too many people throw in the towel after eating bad for one day without considering the fact that any sort of dietary regimen is constructed over days, weeks, months…not one stinking day. You need to step back, way back, and observe your food intake over long stretches of time, for it’s only within this context that you can accurately correlate your diet with your body composition. If you eat like I did today for only the day, but eat cleanly and sparsely for the next 6, you won’t gain weight. But if you eat like I did for a week or two, then yes, I can guarantee that your belt will begin to symbolize the futility of deceased willpower like a slap on your fat face.


So there I sat at the reunion, chatting, eating. I had 3 pork tamales (approximately 325/calories each) and one disgustingly large slice of tres leches cake which was further augmented by a gooey brown layer of caramel (not sure, estimated 350 calories?). Oh and I had half a Coke and a small plate of cheese-covered nachos, AND half a donut. I’m positive this afternoon was good for about 1900 calories. Oh well. It was great while it lasted. Back to the nutritional grind tomorrow.


Anyways, as I sit here griping about today’s caloric intake like a complete pussy, I need to get back on track and explain why it was I remembered that I do have some machismo coursing through these veins.
So yeah, I had this family reunion, I pigged out, hitched a ride back through the drab inland non-wonders of Southern California. You think Southern California and you naturally think of L.A. or San Diego and glittery beach weather and toned and tanned Hollywood bodies. You think glamor. But the Inland Empire is not exactly what you probably have in mind. It’s pretty featureless tract housing intermixed with a good dose of trailer parks and a lot of urban flight represented by people seeking cheaper housing but nevertheless paying the price in the distance they live from work and the overall “unhip” vibe. Cause in L.A., it’s all about which neighborhood you live in, you know. The Inland Empire is like a small dose of Nebraska meets urban SoCal. Think of it like that.


Anyhow, we had left much of that behind and we were heading down the home stretch that is the Westbound 60 as it arrows directly for downtown Los Angeles some 30 miles down the road. Traffic was heavy and the landscape assumed a more “urban” flair, so to speak. Trailer parks and tract housing give way to the disjointed unaesthetic layout of the big city. I was zoning out, anxious to be home in about half an hour, and that is when I heard it. The roar.


A jet powered roar.
Suddenly, there!! a few lanes to our right, a missile whizzed by amidst a tremendous roar. It managed to exit at Nogales without any dramatic self-correcting braking or fishtailing in response to the rabidly enthusiastic driving. Nope, this guy had his car under control. But then again, a Nissan GTR is always in control. Such an exquisite testament to high performance road engineering is nearly impossible to fluster due to so-called spirited driving (short of driving off a cliff). A fixture in Japan for years, the sexy twin-turbo beast is a relatively recent emigrant to the United States. I nearly jumped out of my seat, man. Even in L.A., a Nissan GTR is a rare sighting; to have this precious glimpse enhanced by the voracious roar of its thunderous engine sent girlish shivers down my spine. Look, I don’t like sports and I don’t care for strip clubs, but when it comes to cars, I am a man in heat. I drive a simple 12-year-old bucket, but that wasn’t always the case. I love cars and I love them fast. I was enthralled by the deep pounding cylindrical bass that issued from the sleek Japanese-built V6 driven to a frenzy by its attached inter-cooled twin turbos. I’m spellbound by the brute horsepower as it propels the car to 100 mph in the same amount of time it takes my own car to drag it’s 4-banger ass onto the freeway before getting mowed down by traffic.



from YouTube Motor Trend


There’s something about such a display of finely-tuned piston-driven devastation that riddles my body with a jolt of oozy testosterone. I react like a 14-year-old girl who realizes that Justin Bieber is standing in front of her.


This is when I know…I’m a man. Roar.