There once was a boy from a desolate town that had only one girl worth dating. And when she left him, he came to Fort Collins to float his broken heart in Fat Tire, because you couldn’t buy that where he came from. Before long, he discovered O’Dells IPA. It was even better. Probably because she had never even heard of it.
One night, we were at Road 34 disagreeing about whether you can believe in love but not in God, when I realized I’d let him get too drunk.
“I’m going to buy you a burrito,” I said.
“Do you have McBurritos here?” he asked. “The only girl worth dating–we always ate there.”
I put him in my car and drove right past McBurritos, and he was too drunk or too new to insist on it. Instead, I took him to Big City Burrito.
There wasn’t a line, so I didn’t tell him the rules for ordering…
(The tortilla guy doesn’t want to know what kind of burrito you’re having. Just tell him what kind of tortilla…he’s only pretending to listen to the rest. The filling guy will ask you…never mind. OH, unless you’re getting potato, you have to tell the tortilla guy if you’re going to get potato.)
The boy from a desolate town ordered a potato burrito, and then turned down the Ranch dressing. “Nobody turns down the Ranch dressing with potato,” I said.
“What?” he asked.
“Nevermind.” It was his Big City Burrito and I knew better than to think I could save him from his own bad decisions by now. So I poured us both an iced tea. He found us an unelegant table in a room with sobering lights.
The burritos and the tea did their work. When I was nearly done, I went to pee. When I returned he was talking to a girl with a damp table rag about John Cage, and she was leaning toward him.
That potato burrito with no Ranch started the cure. Within days, he stopped talking about the only girl worth dating. And he stopped talking about where they ate. And he stopped talking about love all together.
But he kept eating at Big City. Every day.
And he never stopped talking about God.
There once was a boy from a desolate town that had only one girl worth dating. And when she left him, he came to Fort Collins to float his broken heart in Fat Tire, because you couldn’t buy that where he came from. Before long, he discovered O’Dells IPA. It was even better. Probably because she had never even heard of it.
One night, we were at Road 34 disagreeing about whether you can believe in love but not in God, when I realized I’d let him get too drunk.
“I’m going to buy you a burrito,” I said.
“Do you have McBurritos here?” he asked. “The only girl worth dating–we always ate there.”
I put him in my car and drove right past McBurritos, and he was too drunk or too new to insist on it. Instead, I took him to Big City Burrito.
There wasn’t a line, so I didn’t tell him the rules for ordering…
(The tortilla guy doesn’t want to know what kind of burrito you’re having. Just tell him what kind of tortilla…he’s only pretending to listen to the rest. The filling guy will ask you…never mind. OH, unless you’re getting potato, you have to tell the tortilla guy if you’re going to get potato.)
The boy from a desolate town ordered a potato burrito, and then turned down the Ranch dressing. “Nobody turns down the Ranch dressing with potato,” I said.
“What?” he asked.
“Nevermind.” It was his Big City Burrito and I knew better than to think I could save him from his own bad decisions by now. So I poured us both an iced tea. He found us an unelegant table in a room with sobering lights.
The tea did its work. I went to pee. When I returned he was talking to a girl with a damp table rag about John Cage, and she was leaning toward him.
That potato burrito with no Ranch started the cure. Within days, he stopped talking about the only girl worth dating. And he stopped talking about where they ate. And he stopped talking about love all together.
But he kept eating at Big City. Every day.
And he never stopped talking about God.
My day job is interfering with my blog this week. That’s why I’m offering something more creative than historic. Something I wrote in the middle of the night recently. More relevant posts to come when the real work is done.
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[What happens when you ask the Lost Fort Collins blog a question? Typically, I just go ask Norm for the answer. Norm Cook has lived in Fort Collins since the mid 1940s, and he remembers EVERYTHING!