Jun 12 2014


Hey Kids!

I realize it’s been a minute since my last blog entry. But…

Sorry, got hungry writing that last line so had to go make myself a sandwich.  I’m back now though.  Wait….

Forgot the Diet Coke. OKAY!

Funny Story:

My brother (Carne Asada) wakes me up at 10 am this morning with a panicked phone call.  It went like this….

“Burrito!  What are you doing?”
“Ummm [yawn] working on my screenplay.”
“I didn’t know who to call.  I’m at Home Depot in the parking lot and this little Mexican guy is trying to break into someone’s car.  What should I do?”
“Call the police.”
“No, do you think I should go over there and whoop his ass?”
“No, I think you should call the police. What if he has a gun?”
“I have a gun.”
“Of course you do, but I don’t think you should start a shoot out in the Home Depot parking lot, if that’s what you’re asking me.  Especially over someone else’s car.”
“My car got broken into three times since January.”
“Think it was the same guy?”
“Probably not, but someone should teach these [racial slur] a lesson. They always get away!”
“Carne Asada, this sounds awful familiar.  You been following the Trayvon Martin case?”
“I really think you should just call the police. Call 911 and then don’t go after him with a gun. Just stay where you are.”
“But, I don’t want to take my eyes off of him or he might get away.”
“Are you looking at him right now?”
“And you’re talking to me.”
“Good point.”
“Hang up and call the police.”
“Man, I was really hoping you would tell me to whoop his ass. That’s why I called you.”
“You honestly thought my reaction to you telling me you were witnessing a carjacking was to tell you to go over and beat the shit out of the carjacker?”
“You were wrong.  At the very least I’d tell you to inform someone at Home Depot, maybe a security guard or manager, that there was someone breaking into cars in their parking lot.”
“That’s a good idea.”
“But you should probably just call the police.  Hang up the phone and call the police.”

He hangs up the phone.  5 minutes later he calls back.  I answer skeptically.

“Did you call the police?”
“NO!  I sprinted into Home Depot and told the manager and we went out to the parking lot ready to whoop their asses.”
“Their?  I thought it was just one guy.”
“Me too, but he had accomplices.  Lookouts.  They ran away when we came after them.”
“Why didn’t you just call the cops?”
“Because this was way more bad ass!”
“Did you actually whoop their asses?”
“No, I told you, the sneaky little fuckers chickened out and ran away.”
“So they got away.”
“Sneaky fuckers.”
“You know if you’d just called the police they could have arrested them.”
“Probably, but that would have been boring.  I still can’t believe you didn’t tell me to whoop their asses.  Maybe pistol whip one.”
“That sounds like a horrible idea.  I’m really glad you didn’t do that.  I’m actually glad they got away and you didn’t get a chance to do that.”
“I feel like Spiderman or Superman or something.  Like a hero.”
“Because I saved someone’s car from getting broken into. And I have a gun.”
“You know, I’m no comic book connoisseur, but I do like a good summer blockbuster and I’m pretty sure Spiderman and Superman don’t have guns.  You should definitely get a suit, btw.”
“I might do that.”
“You should, you should definitely do that.”

Carne Asada calls me all the time trying to get me to encourage him to make bad decisions.   It’s kind of a riot, except when he doesn’t listen to my discouraging words and actually does make bad decisions.  Like this one.  Which reminds me, if anyone is in the market for a 1976 Ford Pinto with brand new rims or some pet “Emperor” Scorpians.   I can get you a sweet deal.


Jul 21 2011


Hey Kids.

Meatballs is my new love.

I call him Meatballs because he really digs spaghetti and meatballs…and because “Meatballs” is an awesome Ivan Reitman movie starring Bill Murray.   Meatballs is an adventurer with a great sense of humour and zest for life.  He read Talking Burrito and didn’t break up with me, so that’s good.  He also has two cats.  I guess nobody is perfect.

Meatballs and I were at Pork Sausage’s wedding in Santa Barbara recently and decided to cash in on a couples massage gift certificate she had given me for my birthday a few weeks earlier.    I was slammed with bridesmaid stuff, so Meatballs made the appointment.  He got a deep tissue for himself and a swedish for me.   I thought this was a little odd as the point of a couples massage is to be relaxed and feel-good together, but he’s a hoss so I figured don’t question the man.

When the masseuses arrived at our hotel room I noticed that one was considerably larger than the other and when I say considerably larger I mean she was at least 6’5″ and had hands the size of frying pans.

“Meatballs,” the large one barked in a baritone voice.  “I’m Victoria.”  She smiled demonically then announced “You’re with me.”

He climbed under the covers with slight hesitancy which ended up being an accurate internal instinct because 10 minutes later I was getting lavender oil gently rubbed into my shoulders by a delicate Asian woman and he was getting body slammed into a neck pillow by Jaws from James Bond.

“Just when you thought you could relax,” she cackled.  Not what you want to hear from your masseuse.  Then I heard something pop and the muffled silence of Meatballs trying not to ruin my swedish moment by screaming in pain.

Over the next 40 minutes Victoria would punctuate that silence with masochistic phrases like “Do you hate me yet?” and “Hurts so good, doesn’t it?” then there was my personal favorite  “You’re going to be walking funny all afternoon.”

When our time was up and Victoria had finally left, I turned to Meatballs and asked him point blank if he’d ever had a deep tissue massage before.  He hadn’t.

“I’m in so much pain right now,”  he said remorsefully and with a lilt in his step (she wasn’t kidding).  “I kept looking over at you and you had lotion and she was doing gentle circular rubbing things with her elbow.  It looked so nice.”

“Ah Meatballs, I didn’t realize you had never had a deep tissue massage before.  I would have warned you.”

“I wish you had.”

“Well now you know.”

I think the lesson here is if your massuse looks like Richard Kiel you might want to reschedule.  Just a thought.


Dec 6 2010

Wine Wasted

Hey Kids.

I just called Ceviche to run a joke by her for this stand up show I’m doing in a few days. I could tell she was wine wasted because her reaction to my joke was this….

“I get it. (no laugh)” So I was at this antique store today and they had the most beautiful coffee table books about big penises.”
“Excuse me?!”
“They…it was full of beautiful artsy pictures of big penises. It was called ‘Big Penises’”
“Artsy? Am I hearing this correctly?”
“Big penises from all time periods. The 20s and 30s.”
“Are you saying penis? Like a man’s penis?”
“Yes, they were beautiful.”
“The books or the penises?”
“The books. Both. And then they had this other one full of old breasts.”
“Like old women’s breasts or like old pictures of breasts.”
“Like from all time periods.”
“Mom, you’re wasted.”
“No but they were beautiful.”
“You’re talking to me about beautiful penis books. You’re wasted.”
“You’re being mean.”
“I’m not having this conversation with you.”
“Would you like one?”
“Like what? A big penis or old breasts?”
“A penis book.”
“Well, I’m sorry I asked.”
“Me too.”

She got off the phone in a huff. I honestly can’t believe somehow I’ve been pegged as the crazy one this time.


Mar 3 2010

The LA Party Scene, Part 3: Frat-tastics

Hey Kids!

Now understand that I’m hardest on the ones I love.  I once was an active participant and believer in the frat scene, spending four hard years in the Greek system.  But, now I see those days as something of the past.  Something for the college kid…and perhaps the recent post grad.  But 30, 35, 42, LOCK IT UP!

You know who you are.  You play beer pong on a regular basis, say things like “black out” when referring to a good time, and consider mesh basketball shorts acceptable social garb (they’re not BTW).  The only difference really from your life in a frat/sorority and now is…well very little.  Frat-tastics don’t change, they ex-change. School for a day job, a frat house for a real house, dues for a mortgage, and kegs/wine coolers for long necks/yellow tail.  You’ll be able to spot these types by their love of hats.  Guys love the baseball cap (all varieties) and girls love the cowboy hat (beat up variety).

A frat-tastic party will almost always revolve around a sporting event.  Either at a bar with lots of beer on tap or at whoever’s home has the biggest flat screen and meanest grill set up.  Frat-tastic guys are the only guys who can get away with slapping your ass in front of your boyfriend and frat-tastic girls are the only girls who can claim to be your best friend a mere two glasses of chardonay after you’ve met.

In my most recent frat-tastic encounter I ended up at a sport bar with loads of fresh out of law school types in full gym gear (apparently showering and changing after playing basketball was too much of a chore). They were eating a meaty fried something and sucking back suds with an “I am sex” attitude.  Don’t know how they had the confidence, they just did.  Next to the bros were a table of corresponding hos huddled together like a judgey sorority clique in full makeup and going out regalia. They finger waved at me with french acrylics.  After a very fake “how are you! OMG what have you been doing?  Its so good to see you” moment, most of them managed to brush off my questions about their career (claiming they were merely teaching something or working in real estate) and quickly turned the focus back on me.  Very cheeky and smart.   I forgot how good these types are at deflecting.

“How is acting, going?” They asked

“Awesome.  I just booked a film playing Matt Damon’s love interest.”


“No, not really.  But I am in a funny play that goes up next month”


“No, not really. I’m lying about that too?”


“Boob fart.”


This conversation wasn’t going to have much depth.  I could tell.

“Really.” I said “Did you hear so and so got engaged?”

“Oh we know!!!!!  Isn’t she lucky!  It’s going to be a lilac and cream color theme, in Laguna, so pretty, we’re all bridesmaids!  Did you see the rock? So jealous.”

I tried to suck back the chunks.

“So jealous.” I said.

“Do you have a boyfriend, Burrito?”

“In fact I do?”

“Is he the one?”

“He’s one of a kind, that’s for sure.”

“But do you think you guys will get married.”

“Not all of us can be as lucky as so and so, right?  I gotta go.  Spinning class in the morning. Byeeeeeeeeeeee.”

I left as swiftly as I could without looking like I was fleeing.  Just when I thought I was in the clear an old frat buddy of mine ran up behind and goosed me. I was a little perturbed, a little violated, and a little complemented.

“Eh! Watch it.” I said.   He winked at me.  And, yes, I winked back.  Old habits die hard.


Jan 25 2010

Shit Gone Wild

Hey Kids.

It’s that time of year again: Pork Sausage’s Birthday or “shit gone wild” as it’s known in my mind.   PS’s b-day is a religion in these parts.  Between surprise trips to Vegas, weekend spa getaways, bottle service, and 8 course tasting dinners PS has had some amazing birthdays….and then she got a proper adult job…and a proper adult life….and we all had to follow suit with this adult charade.  So the parties got more modest and, ahem, classy.

This year I said NO!  No more skewing of shit!  Okay that didn’t come out right, but the gumption for reviving said “shit gone wild” is there!  (Just FYI I’m trying to spice up my vocab. Please bare with me while I work out the kinks).  So, the ladies and I decided to dedicate an entire day to putting the religion back in PS’s parties.  Those ladies are: Me, PS, Whoopers, and introducing Coconuts.  Coconuts is Whoopers twin.  I call her coconuts because of her fantastic rack and tropical tang.  “What tang is that?” you may ask.  That tang is a je ne sais quoi that always makes you feel like you’re on vacation.  Whether it’s her laid back attitude or her ability to make a party out of a freaking light bulb, It’s always a good time with Coconuts*.

Like I said, Whoopers, Coconuts, and I resolve to make PS’s birthday one of crazed extravagance once again.   Problem is we all are conveniently out of a job and can no longer convince our parents to loan us excessive spending money for lavish trips (how we ever did at one point remains an awe-inducing trait that I’m still trying to replicate in life, so frustrating to lose a skill of that magnitude!!!!! Perhaps it was the starving student act.  THE QUEST FOR KNOWLEDGE MUST BE NURISHED!  I should go back to school.)  But I digress.

So on a budget we decide our best bet at optimal shit is to do a “favs” day in LA.  All of P.S.’s favs….within reason (she does have expensive taste sometimes…ahem…Cristal…ahem): fav lunch spot, fav shopping spot, fav activities.  A stroke of brilliance puts us in a taxi cab all day for we may be drunk, but we are NOT irresponsible.  I’m just kidding, we’re horribly irresponsible but not when it comes to operating heavy machinery.   The best way to describe the rest of the day is in itinerary format.  Please read on….

11am: While I prep dinner items and pick up the birthday cake Whoopers and Coconut start getting PS drunk with a bottle of champagne.

12pm: Meet for lunch to fuel up at delish french spot where we proceed to drink 2 bottles of White (I also had a bloody mary…don’t you dare judge me).  Our loud and boisterous girl time imbibing and eating not one, not two, but THREE baskets of cheese bread are observed by nearby diners.  These diners include Chris Robinson from the Black Crows, Brad Garrett, and both of their perspective 22 year old girlfriends.  They finish lunch quite quicker than we do, or so we think.  After Whoopers returns from a jaunt to the john she informs us that she passed both of them at new tables.  They literally asked to move away from us.  At that point, I knew we were on the right track!

2:00pm ish: We finish lunch and traipse through downtown Santa Monica in the rain to a nearby boutique were PS declares she will buy herself a diamond ring for her birthday.  In full support we burst through the doors of Fred Segal, try on several of their finest diamond rings, judge the settings and sparkle with rich bitch snobbery.  THEN some of the alcohol begins to wear off and PS realizes the price tags start at around $50,000.  We subtly, yet confidently,  re-direct ourselves to the 75% off sterling silver jewelry area and then out the door.  But, not before PS manages to meet the head designer of the jewelry department and scold her for not carrying more diamond rings suitable for her delicate fingers! That’ll show ‘em!

3:00 pmish: I selfishly divert everyone to my house to let in the heat repair man.  We drink another bottle of champagnene while he fixes my thermostat.

4:00 pmish: We get our nails done at a nearby nail salon.  Each of us has 2 shoulder massages while they apply color.  Our strange silence indicates a possible hangover.

5:00pmish: We resolve to find PS the perfect birthday suit.  In a frenzy we storm the nearest boutique, occupy every  dressing room, and outfit PS in a new wardrobe that consists of 8 ensembles…5 of which are party dresses.

6:30pm: Needing to re-fuel, we head to a neighborhood wine bar for an Italian wine tasting.  After scaring off other patrons (this is becoming a trend) and befriending the entire wine bar (including the owner), Coconuts begins flirting up a storm with the guy behind the bar.  He looks like John Mayer and she’s obviously trying to get us a heavier handed poor, but her new relationship has hurt her skills a little and despite an excellent effort it doesn’t work.  Taking that as a clue, we purchase two bottles of wine and head to my place.

7:45pm: We arrive at my (new) condo and open the bottles of wine while I drunkenly attempt to make beef wellington.  It sorta works.  We drink another bottle of wine, then another, then another, then sing happy birthday and eat red velvet cake, then pour our hearts out to each other, then open another bottle of wine, then Coconuts exclaims she feels at home in my new place because she “already did a #2 in my bathroom.”  Then I put on Cougartown.  Then everyone goes home.

12:00 am:  I drunk dial Spam.

12:06 am: I hide all my phones so, I won’t drunk dial Spam.

7:00 am: I wake to a blood red mouth (red velvet cake and red wine) and a pounding headache and a basket full of phones that made multiple drunk dials the night before.  I text the ladies and they’re on the same track.  We all feel closer in that way that soldiers do when they return from war.  Everyone had the same experience, but nobody wants to acknowledge or talk about it.

At that time I realized something.  THIS soldiers at war feeling is why we decided to modify the “shit gone wild” years ago.  seemingly harmless days and nights of partying inevitably brought out the beasts and brought on the hangovers…which we are much less capable of handling as adults…or whatever you’d say we are now.  The outing was a success, but I was battle scared…and bloated..

From now on we’ll keep the wild but try to extract the shit.


*Side Note: Coconuts is a little sex kitten btw.  If she hadn’t recently been tied down by her male counterpart, I would still be worried for the general male population…and some of the females.

Jul 2 2009

Oh – J

Hey Kids.

I woke up at the butt crack of dawn today to be molested with 5 different emails demanding my three favorite things: time, money, and labour.   I nearly had a breakdown before 8am.  After getting some aggression out by punching a pillow, my mother (who flew in to help me close on my condo) looks at me like a scared puppy and suggests…

“You should go for a run.”

“I can’t run! I’M HUNGRY!!!!”

We burritos tend to stress eat.  While I take care of some business and try not to punch anything else my mother starts cooking (God bless her).  She peeks in the office 30 minutes later as I frantically type.

“I made some breakfast.”

Thats more like it.  I shlep into the kitchen.  A beautiful healthy spread: eggs, fruit, grilled ham…and wine glasses.  Indicating the glasses I chime in…

“Ceviche, I appreciate the gesture.   But even for us, 7 am is a little extreme.”

“No, silly.  The glasses are for orange juice.”

“Oh”   Ceviche takes in my semi-relieved response and I can see her brain working overtime….

“Do you want some champagne with your oj?”

I love her.


Jun 6 2009

If you can’t work out….

Hey Kids.  

Been swamped lately and have had no time to properly prepare for a formal wedding I’m going to at home.  By prepare I mean the usual wax, buff, polish, sweat, shop, and style.  Home events are always important to look super good at.  Almost as important as red carpet events (haven’t been invited to a red carpet event yet, but I’m sure the prep will be high  priority when the time comes).  

This is because my foray to the mysterious and glamours Hollywoodland to pursue “acting” can only be quantified to these people with two things: 1. regular appearances on one-hour cop dramas or 2. by looking like a movie star.  Since I only see most of the home town peeps about once a year, I’ve gotta look that much more mind blowingly fabulous.  If I don’t, then there is a possibility they may begin to suspect my career isn’t going well and that I’m just living off my parents…which is only half way true.  I know I shouldn’t care what other people think, but I’m an actress living in LA….  It’s not like I can just turn it off.  

I’ve always had a strong back up policy for last minute slim downs: anorexia and tanning.  If you can’t shed your belly fat, then at the least empty your belly.  If you can’t work out, lay out.   Honestly it sounds terribly sad and unhealthy, but believe me…in a pinch….works everytime.

So I wake up this morning and have a tall glass of water for breakfast.  Then I get my nails done and head to the tanning salon.  Too late for a spray tan (the smell needs 24 hours to mellow or else you reek like day old mexican leftovers baking in a cabriolet), so I opt for a quick 5 minutes in a low pressure bed. (to be followed up with a healthy slather of Jergins when I got out of the shower for that “spent the day in the sun” glow).  

I go up to the counter and the girl working the register is a typical over fried bimbo inbetween classes at community college.  

“Hi, Burrito.  I’m from out of town.  Just wanna get one session in a bed please.”

“Burrito with a ‘B?’” She starts cruising the computer.


“Hmmmmm.  You in our system?”

“Yup. B-U-R-R-I-T—”

“Ah ha…hehe….OMG I was spelling it so wrong… There you are…you know you haven’t been in since like, Novmeber?”

“Right, Thanksgiving” (can’t work out, lay out remember?)

“So for just $150 more you can get an unlimited monthly package.”

“yeah, I don’t live here so that wouldn’t make since.  Plus I tan maybe 5 times a year.  Hence the November issue…so”

“But you’re paying $11 for one session and this way even if you came in like every day it would still just be $150″

“That’s possibly the worse pitch I’ve ever heard, even still.  No thank you.  OH and can I get some eye protection glasses things”

“yeah and do you wanna buy a sample lotion or a whole bottle?”

“Um, no lotion just the glasses and the ONE session.  I’m kinda in a hurry so if you could–”

“NO LOTION!” She started hyperventalating and I’m not making this up.  “What, you don’t use lotion?! Cause you should use lotion.”

“Well I don’t really see the point I’m just going in for 5 minutes”

“If you don’t use lotion you can get sun damage cause it, like absorbs the sun and distributes it into your body evenly so you don’t get sun damage.”

Okay, maybe I was generous when I assumed she went to community college.

“Well, I’m pretty sure that makes no sense and even if it did.  Tanning itself is pretty much causing sun damage already.  I mean that’s what getting a tan is.  You’re damaging skin cells.  Cooking them actually.  Thats why you look so toasty.  You’re cooking your skin to a toasty golden brown.”

“But the lotion keeps you from getting sun damage.”

I couldn’t believe it.  This girl was talking melanoma and she was giving me a lecture on sun damage?  Did she honestly believe that using tan enhancing lotion…thats right, not sun block TAN ENHANCING LOTION…. was going to save anyone from the effects of sun damage?  That’s like eating a multi vitamin with a bucket of ice cream and thinking all the calories have been taken out.  or rather “absorbed it into your body and distributed evenly so you don’t get fat”  

It was a lost cause with this one and I could see that. So I took a deep breath, made severe eye contact, and said…

“Is it required by law to SELL me lotion in order to tan?  Does your store policy dictate that you may refuse me service if I don’t?”

“Well, no.  I’m just trying to be a good friend.”

“Thanks, friend (seriously…we’re friends now).  I’m good with the goggles.  No lotion.  How much total?”


I gave her $15 and told her to keep the change.  Maybe put it towards achieving her GED, or better yet Chemo.  Hey, I was just trying to be a good friend.


Mar 12 2009

Pork Sausage

Hey Kids.
Let me introduce Pork Sausage…I call her that because when some so-called “friends” dubbed me “burrito” in college, I asked her not to encourage them. She promptly giggled slyly and said I will not, burrito.  I vowed to give her an equally unflattering name for this betrayal.  She is extremely attractive and has a very thick skin, so I knew this would be hard.  But when I landed on Pork Sausage I could see the fear in her eyes.   Victory. 
Pork Sausage (aka “PS” Roll with the short-hand people) is my closest friend and favorite commiserater.  Why do I love her so much?  She’s just like me: a walking dichotomy.  For example, she will never turn down daytime drinking, but detests blow-job shots. 
We met at college orientation when we both refused to join our group bonding session because it was taking place on a chair-less dewy field and we were both wearing white linen.  I knew our superior fabric choice would bond us forever, I got lucky with the drinking and sarcasm.  We became freshman roommates and have never lived more than a few steps/blocks from each other since then…mostly because of the DUI potential but also because of the love.

When PS and I are united we are like brown sugar and swiss, best served with ham.  I’d be the swiss (due to my inclination for euro-trash) and she’d be the brown sugar (due to her inclination for the brothers). Which reminds me of my New Years resolution to diversify.  It was one of those New Years resolutions that got lost to Super Bowl Sunday like weight loss and work ethic.

The only thing PS and I flourish in more than a good late night snack,  is the opportunity to abrasively make fun of others…usually to their face.  Typing this out now I’m starting to realize why we don’t have more mutual friends.   
Alcohol to our behavior is like water to a gremlin, one drop and things get ugly.  What may be perceived as “destructive” to others is swinging from a ceiling fan and eating pizza after midnight to us….especially when it’s good stuff.  Hey, we may be drunks, but we’re not cheap!  And I will always stand by that motto, even when I’m on my back.  
Some of our most exciting nights of memory loss were at the classiest of affairs like Champagne tastings to benefit children’s cancer, Pinot Noir tastings to benefit lung cancer, and Tequila tastings to benefit my zodiac sign cancer…. When we’re depressed on a week day afternoon do you think we go home and down a bottle of Kendell Jackson in private? NO we proudly parade into the local Whole Foods and order a flight of organic wine from their tasting bar, because we’re classy like that.
Lately PS is between jobs and this couldn’t make me happier.  The only thing better than being unemployed is being unemployed with company, ESPECIALLY when that company is a “yes” man like my girl PS.  The other day we were having a leisurely 4 hour lunch and I’m all lets drive to Vegas RIGHT NOW and she’s like, lets…and since you’ve given up drinking for lent, I’ll drive so you can smoke!  That’s true friendship.  
PS doesn’t smoke, but likes to entertain the idea from time to time.  The truth is both of us are too scared to try real drugs.  May I repeat that TOO SCARED.  Not too Christian, not too smart, not too mature, but too scared.   We don’t like to admit this, so please don’t spread it around.  Druggies tend to be less trusting if they think you’re judging them and nobody is more judgemental than a sober person.  Needless-to-say what we lack in narcotic addiction we make up for in wasteless-ness, which we have been doing a lot of lately and it feels great.  
Now, PS starts a masters program in education next month so I’ve gotta milk the shit out of her free time while I can.  She wants to teach children…don’t even get me started on this.   I tell her I’m all the children she needs, but she says its not the same.  Until she makes this huge mistake dedicating her life to tomorrow’s future (whatever THAT means), I’m going to put my social work in acting on the back burner and spend some QT getting in trouble with my little Pork Sausage.  Stay tuned.

Mar 8 2009

Mamma Ceviche

Hey Kids.

My mother just called me. Serious concern in her voice. “Burrito, I just read your blog. You sound like an alcoholic. Take it down.”  I sound like an alcoholic…that’s rich.

So, instead of taking down the post I will use this as an opportunity to introduce my mother. AND since I will be giving everyone food names I will call her…Ceviche. She’d approve of that, not that she deserves a likable alias after that verbal barrage this morning, but I’m no monster.

Ceviche is a little firecracker. I got my best traits from her: the know-how to properly host a party, confidence to pull off the most questionable of fashion trends, and most importantly an affinity for the sauce.

Cheers Ceviche!  Don’t get too worried.  Nobody reads this thing anyway.