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Every time I go to a fast food restaurant, it reminds me of certain painful interactions and with women from my past. As a poor person in Los Angeles, fast food is the most logical choice for my meals like 20% of the time. I eat it for survival and I know it’s fucked up, but fast food culture is ubiquitous here.

It’s different in Massachusetts. In my youth, fast food was used to mark a really special occasion. We used to have great birthday parties at McDonald’s. Or Burger King if the kid’s family had a good year fiscally. I really view Burger King as a treat and a legitimate meal to boot. Wendy’s is a different story. My family still has significant sit down dinners at Wendy’s. These are rich people, now. Like, these days, they have the wherewithal to go get 20 dollar burgers. But they’re still eating Jr. Bacon Cheeseburgers.

McDonald’s, though obviously the shitties of the bunch, has really good pickle and ketchup chemicals. Burger King has crispy lettuce and nice mayo. Wendy’s, I mean come on, Wendy’s is a place I can’t even really admit is shitty. I have nothing bad to say about Wendy’s. They even make their burgers into shapes! So when I tell you my first time at In-N-Out was divine for me, I’m not lying. It was like… it was like eating freshly showered pussy for the first time. I shit you not. It’s like, the more you eat the better it tastes, and you can’t stop drooling or thinking about the next bite but at the same time you’re transported to a place and mindeset wherein you’re not aware of the future or the past, desire, or regret. You’re just there eating a burger/pussy, which is technically the entire point of America.

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Everyone in the pork tent is dressed to the nines, or rather, their version of being dressed to the nines. From my vantage point near a slowly revolving al pastor cyclone I try to count the number of salmon bow ties, tweed suit jackets, and cool linen suits topped off with tennis shoes, but it’s a futile endeavor. Everyone is whispering about Alton Brown’s egg tutorial that’s taking place later in the evening. “He’s coming,” they say. When I was given a free ticket to cover the Los Angeles Food & Wine Festival I assumed it would be an easy in and out gig where I could cobble together a free dinner made up of slightly upscale street cart food, get drunk, and walk home, but instead I’m standing by a spinning tower of meat, and trying to find the clearest path to an exit. I’ll make something up once I get home. It’s not like I didn’t try to cover the festival. This just isn’t the place for me, and I’ve already used up my two drink tickets. None of the other writers covering the event seem to know where the gratis tent for journalists is hidden, and there are rumors floating around about someone from the LA Times being sent out on a stretcher after they were tasered within an inch of their life for bringing in a flask.