Taco ‘bout taste

I’ve heard it said perfection is an illusion. And I subscribe to that belief, especially when it comes to relationships, parking spots and my ability to fold a fitted sheet. Well, apparently there’s one more thing it applies to. Finding the perfect taco in Los Angeles.

A fool’s errand? Maybe. But if there’s an impossible dream worth chasing, it’s one wrapped in a warm corn tortilla.

Here’s the thing: Los Angeles is a taco mecca. And its cool cousin Long Beach is no slouch either. The options are endless: street vendors, mom-and-pop shops, taco trucks with lines longer than the DMV.

Each taco has its own personality. Some spicy and unpredictable (like my high school girlfriend). Others rich and comforting (see previous joke). There are hard-shell and soft shell. Open and closed. Trying to choose a favorite is like trying to pick your favorite child, which, frankly is easier on some days than others.

I’ve tasted the smoky al pastor. I’ve savored shredded beef so tender it brought a tear to my eye, and a permanent stain to my shirt.

And the fish tacos? If loving them is wrong, I don’t want to be right.

But how can just one be THE taco? It feels wrong when they all bring something special to the table (see what I did there?).

In my search I realized something: every day in L.A. is Taco Tuesday. There’s no waiting for a specific day of the week—great tacos are available, at all hours, in all places. You can have a breakfast taco in the morning, a carnitas taco at lunch, and a late-night street taco after an evening of bad decisions.

And there lies the beauty of this City of Tacos. Just when you think you’ve found the one, another contender pops up, winking at you from the next food truck. Or calling your name from a modest taqueria tucked behind a laundromat.

I don’t want to spoil the end of the story for you, but I haven’t found the perfect taco. The search continues, and every bite is its own reward.

Viva la búsqueda. Long live the search.

Chat room

You know them. You’ve met them. You probably have one or more in your life right now.

The Never-Ending Talker. The person who operates under the principle silence is the enemy, and words must flow like a broken fire hydrant in July.

The good news is you never have to worry about holding up your end of the conversation. In fact, you don’t even have to participate. You can just nod, throw in the occasional “oh wow” or “that’s crazy” or “Can you believe it?” and they’ll take it as a heartfelt invitation to continue.

The bad news is they can’t take a hint. You can start backing away, inching toward the exit and they will follow. You can check your watch. Fake a phone call. Hail a taxi, hop in, roll up the window and drive off and without a doubt they’ll already be in the passenger seat, mid-sentence.

If you find yourself trapped in an endless monologue, here are some survival tactics:

1. The Mirror Technique – Repeat their last sentence back to them as a question. This creates a loop that momentarily stuns them.

2. The Strategic Yawn – Yawning is contagious. If they start yawning too, there’s a slight chance they’ll pause to wonder why they suddenly feel exhausted.

3. The Sudden Fake Emergency – “Oh no! I forgot I left the oven on in 2007! Gotta go!”

4. The Disappearing Act – If all else fails, just vanish. Learn the fine art of the Irish Goodbye—slipping away unnoticed while they’re still mid-sentence. Don't worry about offending them. People have been slowly backing away from them all their lives - they're used to it. They might not even realize you’re gone until they finish their story, which could take anywhere from 20 minutes to several lifetimes.

You have to admire their stamina. But at the same time, you have to be wishing there was an off switch. We all have chatty friends like this, and it doesn’t make them bad people.

I don’t know what your position on this is. Mine is next to the nearest exit.

Not bowled over

A long time ago, in a galaxy far, far away, the Super Bowl wasn’t just a game. It was an annual event for those of us who couldn’t tell a touchdown from a turnover, but could debate for hours whether a talking baby or a chimpanzee in a suit made for a better ad. Super Bowl commercials were legendary, a showcase of daring, innovative creativity where brands threw millions at the screen and somehow made it work.

Now it’s like watching a billion-dollar trust fund kid start a DJ career—so much money, so little talent.

I remember the days when a Super Bowl ad had cultural staying power. The best ones lived rent-free in our minds for decades. They weren’t just commercials; they were events. Apple’s “1984,” the Budweiser frogs, Old Spice turning deodorant into performance art.

Fast forward to today, and we’re left with a parade of warmed-over celebrity cameos, desperate attempts at nostalgia and punchlines that land with all the grace of a buffalo on roller skates.

Comedy in Super Bowl commercials used to be sharp, fresh. Now brands think if they just jam enough random celebrities into a 30-second spot, hilarity will ensue. Instead, we get a confusing mess where the product is an afterthought, wedged between three forced catchphrases and an overpaid A-lister who’s clearly wondering if this is worth the humiliation.

Case in point: This year’s crop of commercials felt like an AI-generated script where the prompt was simply “funny?” with a shrug emoji. The formula is painfully predictable—add one washed-up 90s star, sprinkle in a nostalgia reference and season liberally with over-the-top CGI. Voila! You’ve just burned $7 million on airtime for something people will forget before halftime.

And yet, amidst the wasteland of uninspired content, Jeep’s commercial featuring Harrison Ford stuck with me. Here’s a guy who can sell anything by simply showing up and looking vaguely disinterested. But somehow, Jeep managed to turn that into gold, blending his authenticity with the product in a way that felt natural, honest and actually enjoyable.

There used to be a time when people pretended to watch the game just so they could see the commercials. But that era is dead. Now, it’s just a wasteland of corporate money pits where ambition goes to die.

I suppose there’s always hope for next year, but let’s be real: the golden age of Super Bowl commercials is over. The magic is gone, replaced by desperate marketing teams green-lighting anything that might go viral, regardless of quality.

Until then, we’ll have to settle for watching the actual game—which will definitely be more exciting than watching another forced celebrity endorsement do their impression of a Tesla—crash and burn.