Yesterday I was forced to boldly go where no Caucasian man has gone before – the depths of the mission. Riding my Iron-Horse Bicycle made it an even more difficult journey, an excursion that took its toll on me.
After dealing with my business, I found my warrior’s rest in the shape of a big, shiny cactus-colored Taquería on 24th street, between Harrison and Folsom.
I parked my bike outside, entered the premises and received an admiring nod by the fellow immigrants who were sporting their fajitas, raising their glasses of Porchata as a sign of appreciation for (who they thought were) a fellow devotee of La Bandera de México.
Not since I discovered how to make love to myself have I ever felt so proud. It was an immense moment that was as surreal as these life can get. I approached the counter for the sake of my borito, and when the Señorita started talking to me in the Mexican language of Spanish – I finally, for the first time ever, felt like a true man.
I challenge all of you, my fellow stachers, to be perceived – even if for just a split moment - as a Latino man.
Frankelstien
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