please remove your shoes

It’s freezing in Minnesota. I’m sitting in a Bruegger’s Bagels and my hands still haven’t thawed out. Bruegger’s Bagels, if you’ve never been there, is awful. That is, of course, unless you’re the type of person who likes paying seven dollars for a shitty-ass panini that leaves you hungrier than when you came. Then it’s paradise.

The worst part is there’s a Chipotle across the street. Probably the only Chipotle in all of Minneapolis. Lee and I were walking down University Avenue after crossing the Stone Arch Bridge towards where we thought might be food when I half-jokingly quipped, “What if there’s a Chipotle there?” We rounded the corner of University and Hennepin and there it was: Fate, wrapped in a tortilla.

Except we didn’t eat there. We decided to try something new. And different. And awful.

In related news, the other day we DID go to Chipotle in Los Angeles, and it was OK. My friend Andy said the line was longer than he’d ever seen it, which didn’t surprise me because once people in Los Angeles catch on to something trendy, they catch on with a vengeance. I assumed the line would move quickly as it does in Seattle, but it crawled along at a wounded salamander’s pace. Then, when we were ordering, I had my arm resting resting on the glass, leaning on it casually like a person does when he/she owns the place, and the woman in line behind me said to the employee crafting her burrito, “Sorry, I would tell you what I want, but I don’t want to talk through someone’s armpit.”

Excuse me? You come in to my fucking house and talk to me like that? I was furious. This woman embodied everything I despise about California, and here she was, in a holy place, talking like a goddamn moron. When asked what kind of salsa she wanted she responded, “What are my options?” What are your options? Walk outside to the parking lot and step in front of a fucking car. That’s your option. Either that or say fresh tomato, hot, and get on with it. Christ.

Anyway, people like her are one of the reasons why we had to leave LA. I mean, I bet if I was to walk in to the Chipotle across the street here in Minneapolis I would find no woman resembling this botoxed hag. Not in good ‘ol Heartland, America. Sure, the customers might not be Chipotle professionals, but at least they’d have a little common sense. Be able to tell their asses from their elbows; their sour creams from their guacs.

Tomorrow, when I have a little more common sense myself and decide not to go to Bruegger’s, maybe I’ll confirm that this is true.

Until then,

Wetzler

Timeline

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