LET ME TELL YOU about a pre-show tradition. In high school, on opening night, we would all arrive about an hour before call. We'd walk together-laughing, joking, teasing, the usual-to the taco bus that parked down the street. There, everyone ordered two soft tacos, with whatever meat or non-meat they desired. Then, one of the seniors would DROWN everyone's food in authentic, melt-your-face-spicy hot sauce. Once everyone's salsa level was approved, we'd head back to the green room and eat. (1/3)
But the rule was you weren't allowed to have anything to drink until you finished both tacos. The first one was intense, but manageable. Your mouth burned and your eyes watered, but it didn't seem so bad. But just when you finished the first, feeling invigorated and slightly invincible, you'd find yourself staring at another, and it would look strangely sinister. At this point the salsa had made a fiery trail down to your stomach, and people were starting to act a bit strange. I remember one guy jumping around and whooping in an effort to psych himself up. Another sat still, crying silently at his food. Some people would lay on the floor or take a lap around the building. Whatever the coping technique, that damned second taco was a monster. It wasn't exciting anymore. You couldn't taste anything except pain. Chewy tortilla pain. But we fought on, and when at last the final morsel was consumed, we had the sweet relief of a beverage. We called this game Taco Sex.
Woah, that sounds cruel and unusual!
