One of the dearest people in my life is my baby sibling-like substance, Hondo Boston-Peters. Simply adore the guy. Hondo is a nickname because his real name is John and you can’t have two people sitting at the table with the same first name because when someone starts a query with, “Hey, John…” we both harmonize, “Wwuutt…?”
I anointed my constantly refreshing and annoying kid bro decades ago, when he was in third grade and playing local youth basketball. He drew the nickname from the Celtics’ great John “Hondo” Havlicek. Poor Johnny. Amongst the other little boys with spindly legs, toothpick arms and a big, 60-pound head, loosely draped with a basketball uni, my Hondo was demonstrably horrible. His sport was not sports. And yet, to this day, he runs, stretches, takes yoga and he’s still in race horse shape. To our family’s shame, we are intolerant of Hondo, not as a human being, but as a dancer.
You see, Hondo has been a professional choreographer, dancer and director all his adult life. He’s been a legend as dance coach for numerous NFL and NBA cheerleader squads. I’ve never seen a human being dance so well and I’ve seen both Baryshnikov and Nureyev perform live. When there are family gatherings, we push Hondo away from us because, well, we’re embarrassed by the comparison.
I strangled Hondo once.
Years ago, when he was just starting out as a choreographer, I felt sorry for the guy. He was and is that rare soul who was doing what he loved and meant to do and at a high level. But, for about 20 years, when we ever went out, for meal, movie or circus tickets, I paid for everything. Me, a journalist, that was like a New Delhi beggar picking up the tab for an Aborigine’s baked cockroach. One morning, we’re at our sister Lisa Claire’s house up in tree-rich Northern California. Lisa is another person in our family whom I don’t particularly care for because Lisa has math skills and is an accountant. I hear Lisa has math skills higher than Einstein but I couldn’t attest because my head is so right-brained that I walk with a pronounced limp. Lisa did Hondo’s taxes. We’re all sitting at her breakfast table and she frisbees Hondo’s IRS forms across for him to sign. Cute but fetching, Lisa is as athletic as Joe Biden trying to walk up airplane stairs. Hondo’s tax returns land in my lap. Picking them up, I couldn’t help but notice. My baby sibling was due a five-figure tax refund AND, the previous year, he brought home six figures. My jaw drops, making a noticeable thump on Lisa’s oak table.
Six. Period. Figures. Period.
“How long have you been making this kind of money?” I asked, voice trembling.
“I dunno. Ten years. Maybe more like 20?” Hondo shrugs, disinterested.
My eyes narrow. “You mean to tell me I’ve been picking up the tab every time we go out and you’re hauling in — SIX FIGURES?”
Hondo’s the baby of the clan. People carried him around from infancy to, in my case, apparently into his early 40’s.
Again, Hondo shrugged the No Big Deal aspect of my charity. “I dunno. I always just thought you bought things for me cuz you liked me.”
I screamed. I cartoon strangled him like Daffy Duck choking Elmer Fudd and replied, “I DON’T LIKE ANYONE THAT MUCH GIVE ME MY MONEY BACK!!!”
Now. Let us talk of tacos because it’s in the headline.
Hondo and I are closer than close and I have so many memories of our times together (him throwing up on a whale watching school trip when he was 7; me making walrus tusks out of chopsticks the first time he had sushi and was terrified of raw fish). One of my fondest memories was when Hondo, out of the blue, confessed, “John Boston. I just LOVE those mystery meat tacos they sell at Jack In The Box, five for a dollar …”
There was so much sincerity in his voice. And I felt that way, too. Forget Jack. Both of us had a weakness for Taco Bell, starting back in the day when tacos were 19 cents. The other night, despite my Good Guardian Angel, all four inches of her, standing on my right shoulder, screaming into my ear and poking me with her harp, warning me not to visit the tacotorium’s drive-thru. I bought a few tacos. Why? Like my writing, “tasteless and no good.” Like most American fast-food outlets, they’ve increased the price to bankruptcy levels while shrinking the size. A DELUXE taco is now the size of a business card — folded … Taco Bell used to practice the novel idea of making a taco — sinfully yummy. Not so much anymore. As I approach middle age, I limit my ape intake to just three per week. I’ve noticed the mystery filler just doesn’t have that zesty pop anymore and the tacos crumble faster than our nation’s values.
I hate to be a conspiracist (actually, fibbing; LOVE being a conspiracist), but I ask why is the Mystery Taco Chow truck making deliveries at the fake Mexican food outlet?
Dear me. It just occurred. I ate at Taco Bell last weekend — BEFORE the $5,000 an hour minimum wage kicked in. I shouldn’t complain about the insane Climate Change tribal dance we’re all stuck in, brainlessly writhing. But shouldn’t the fine purveyors of fast-food tacos consider making them edible and larger than a single Sugar Frosted Flake?
I know I’m opening myself up to ridicule and sarcasm, recalling that Back In The Great Depression, Tacos Cost A Penny And Were Actually Quite Tasty. But taco prices have increased — literally — tenfold from fairly recent memory. Bonus? They didn’t taste like dog kibble. How do I know what dog kibble tastes like? That’s between me and my Catholic confessor …
Santa Clarita’s John Boston is history’s most prolific satirist. Go visit his bookstore at johnbostonbooks.com and see if you can order some decent and cheaply priced tacos. Or, buy some books …
The post John Boston | Hondo & the Pricey Mystery Meat Tacos … appeared first on Santa Clarita Valley Signal.
login
who are we?
contact us
qosheapp
Toi Staff
Gideon Levy
Belen Fernandez
Rami G Khouri
Mort Laitner
Donald Low
Ali Fathollah-Nejad
Nikkei Editorial
visit website
