Sorry, I wasn’t here last week to give you your weekly dose of TexMex. I was on vacation in the Spanish province of Mushaboom (or as it is pronounced there: Moosh-e-kah-boon). Mushaboom the place of cobbled streets and women who look a lot like Feist.
There was a pleasant coffee shop, where I had a latte for 3.50 and talked to a man in a suit about ideas for existential soul searchings, like going to the beach to find women dancing in wooden sandals and long white dresses.
Look as she twirls, says business suit man as he paints these nubile images in my head. She twirls and lets her long tangled brown hair down. The dance in my head starts pounding, the feet step into my brain and I open my eyes to see Feist. She says she loves me and I say “I love you too, my Moosh-e-boom.” I lean in for the kiss and when our lips touch, I see business suit man again. He excuses himself and I shrug and order something to eat.
I could not order buffalo wings, nachos with queso sauce, nor southwestern eggrolls with a side of ranch. There were only bagels, muffins, organic croissants and a broccoli cheddar quiche. So I bought the quiche, prodding it with a fork pretending it was something else like an “onion ring volcano blaster.” Disgusted I shoved the quiche away and left the store.
Mushaboom became more sinister to me. Where was the Chili’s? The Applebee’s with their happy hour on fluorescent margaritas? Where was the business casual clientele that talked sports over a plate of fried pickles?
Just as I was at my lowest point, I heard laughter from the streets. It was the voice of youth. I took delight as I saw kids scampering by with big lollipops and clowns seducing tourists with their balloon making skills. I started to smile a bit. Maybe my vacation wasn’t a big disaster, thought I. My steps started to pick up and I began to skip merrily, waving at all the fancy antique and ice cream stores along the street.
I skipped along the cobbled streets, kicking pebbles off into the distance. Ah, those faint echoes you’d hear as the pebbles scattered into alleyways. Later, I heard laughter from those alleys as those pebbles turned into Pebble People when they knew the humans weren’t around. The Pebble People who danced merrily just like the metaphorical women in my head.
But that is when I discovered the sad truth about Mushaboom. I realized my mistake in kicking the pebble people around as if they were just mere objects, “pebbles” as you’d call them. I realized that the Mushaboom people were anti-Pebble People. I saw people, just like myself, kicking them, some even tossing them into a lake, drowning them. I came across a young boy throwing pebbles at a glass window to get the attention of a young lady. The horrible abuse that the pebble people must feel! And now the Glass People thought that the Pebble People were hurting them.
Then I looked at the boy and saw how ill-fitting his red cardigan was. It was baggy and the sleeves were too short. He wore mismatching tube socks and I lamented once more.
He will never woo a lady in such a tacky outfit.