As is standard, I spend Sundays with Big Chris. I don't think I've ever had such a consistent relationship with a straight man in my life. Chris is fond of routine.
Chris comes over.
We get burritos, either at the regular place or at "authentico."
We get drinks at Dirty Thieves.
We go back to my house and fall asleep watching television. Occasionally, there are mild changes. Last night, Chris met Alex and me at San Tung, refusing to eat because it was "burrito night" and later, Becky needed some girl time so we cried in the kitchen while Chris screamed at the TV and brought me his leftovers.
But otherwise, my Sunday is pretty standard.
Chris. Mexican. Drinks. Mad Men. Sleep (on Chris.)
Allow me to explain the difference between "the regular place" and "authentico."
The regular place is el burrito place on 24th and Alabama. It's your standard Mission burrito joint and usually, Chris gets a burrito and he gets me a Diet Coke. I eat his chips. He eats his boring chicken burrito. Our stop is perfunctory and brief. Yet lately, we've been heading to "authentico," the scary, ghetto version of cheap Mexi-food across the street. Authentico has a taco section at the front door, should you wish to forgo the menu and simply have a $1.50 taco, selecting a meat (eye is an option) piled on two little corn tortillas and dumping onions and salsa atop it. But Chris doesn't get tacos. It's burrito night. Duh.
"Yeah, I need one el pollo burrito, no extras, no rice. One cervesa. One Diet Coke."
This is not your standard gringo burrito joint. Authentico is where my neighbors eat, craving an FDA un-approved taste of the old country. And while Chris refuses to acknowledge that we have "our song," he'll gladly announce, "Oh, our table is empty!"
I spend my time at Authentico stealing Chris' complementary chips and sipping my Diet Coke. Oh, and admiring the murals.
Folks, if you think you like art, you need to join me in an eye burrito at Authentico. The walls and ceiling are covered in poems and murals, the likes of which I guarantee you've never experienced. For example...
"The Football. The San Francisco 49ers have the viligance of the deer. The cunning of the bear. The strength of the bison."
And then, amisdt a poorly painted Golden Gate Bridge, 1850's gold-diggers, missionaries befriending Native Americans and TWO Transamerica buildings, are a deer, bear, bison and 49ers AND Giants catching footballs and swinging bats. And suddenly, there's Dwight Clark rocking "the catch."
"Chrissy, look. It's the catch."
"No it's not." He shoved more plain burrito in his mouth.
"Um, yeah. It is."
"Really? Then why is that a white Jerry Rice?"
Oh my God. He's right. A blurry number 80 is catching the football.
I was delighted. "Chris! They combined them. Holy shit, they've combined Dwight Clark and Jerry Rice. Wait, what number should it be?"
"Dwight Clark was always 87. What are you, retarded?" Chris could not have been less impressed with the amazing artwork which surrounded us. He stormed out and marched us across the street to Dirty Thieves.
"We don't have a song. So stop saying that shit."
"Yes, we do, so stop being an asshole."
"No, bitch. We don't."
He then went up and shoved dollars into the jukebox.
Prince! Wild Horses! The Pogues!
"Oh my god, I love this song."
Chris took a swig of his beer. "Yeah. I know. Shut up."
"You're playing me songs. Ha! You SO love me. Say it."
"You just played Diamonds and Pearls. Oh my god, you love so me so much!"
"Actually, I hate you right now."
Hmmm. Okay. Well, your musical selections bespeak otherwise. I love you too, Chrissy. Maybe I'll paint a mural as an homage to our friendship...