As promised, my take on Chicago tacos at this time. I had the good fortune to be hosted by a foodie during my stay. One day we wound up at Carniceria Leon, a deli/meat market/taqueria in Wicker Park. The joint had Al Pastor skewered on a giant spit; as such, I knew I was in the right place.

Five second review: Generous portions, hybrid salsa, delicious tacos. I was expecting the requisite “con todo?” query, so it was bit of a surprise to hear the guy behind the counter ask if we wanted them served “with onions y cilantro?” but, being the only white people in the joint at the time, nice of him to change it up for us.

The last time I had pastor served from a spit, I was in Boyle Heights. Tacos were served on a makeshift table. The prep station was a minivan’s passenger door area. The whole operation was situated in an automotive repair lot. »continue reading The Al Pastor Invitational: Wicker Park v Boyle Heights

Saturday evening I had the good fortune to view a screening of F.W. Murnau’s Nosferatu in the Chicago Symphony Center. The silent film was scored live by Tortoise in what was (in my book) the crown jewel of a free full day of music sponsored by Macy’s.

The soundtrack itself was essentially an appropriately atmospheric 88-minute Tortoise album. Killer stuff.

This seems like an opportune time to let you know that practically the entire Thrill Jockey roster will be performing in London in a little less than a month to celebrate the label’s 15th anniversary, so if you find yourself in London in early November, you know what to do.

More on Chicago tacos later this week.

Related: Tortoise @ El Rey in June

Good and fair citizens of Los Angeles I have been travelling, shitting and soaring abroad for a number of months. I have many tales to share: some good, some not so good. A few are downright dull. Such is life, I suppose. But at long last the autumn air, a sporadic lust for cheerios and the scent of Metro 217 diesel call me homeward, their songs growing louder by the day. Believe me when I say that I am now making my way down the coast, at my own pace: Back to the land of milk and honey. I have stopped for the night at truly a gravy of a find near an odd place known as Hearst Castle. The salt of the ocean breeze both flavors my nightly meal and cools the marble of this fortress which, might I add, is rife with tourists. It is here, then, that I recall a mere seven days ago in Golden Gate Park I did soar and shit over some 50,000 lovely burnouts. The Summer of Love, ’twere called. I recall now the meadow filled with wrinkles. Patchouli seared my (wee) eyes. I recall hare krishna, hare rama, the pees of tee, the corona car, the teller of destinies, the dead which many were, for reasons unknown to Chiliburger, grateful. Let us look now even as we prepare for my imminent return.

(Cousin! Take note and please have prepared and waiting upon my arrival a line of safflower seed, manure and lime sprinkled with pizza crumbs (here and there as available) as far as the eye can see. Shall we say 4th and Main? I bid you godspeed.)
»continue reading Let Us Now Hearken One Week Prior To The Day When I Did Soar And Shit Over Some 50,000 Lovely Burnouts