Taco (1 of 3)

Portland.

Standing downtown on the side of the street in the balmy days at the dawn of summer, watching the people pass. The hem lines are rising. The neck lines are plunging. I expect, come July, they will find a happy demarcation.

I was waiting in line at the Mexican parking lot lunch cart preparing to order two tacos al pastor from the muy bonita senorita, who was wearing too much mascara. The breeze was cool and broke up the stagnant street-level malaise.

I waited for the taocs. I salivated. Seriously, these my be the greatest tacos ever.

My mind wandered over the concept of a taco, the warm shell wrapping the goody together. I momentarily recalled the taco-like futon in my underhouse, which wraps me like goody and carries me off to the fiesta of sleep...

This lead, in a likewise fashion, to the taco-like leather chair recently purchased for me by the new office. It may be the greatest chair I ever had. It's like sitting on a fat nanny's lap. It's like sitting in butter. It's like sitting in a giant leather taco.

As good as my lunch was, I couldn't wait to get back to my desk and sit in the seat of ultimate luxury. Ole!