On the Future Of Taco Friday

We come at last, dear reader, to our conclusion. What have you learned?

Taco Friday, its mission aside, has been little more than a barely veiled expression of my own desires; it reflects my inner state in a direct, unconfused way. Yet, I sit on the stoop of The Future as confused as I ever was, except now my body has begun to decay appreciably and people expect things of me. The burning fire of Taco Friday has smoldered into embers, my own dangerous curiosities having been by and large satisfied.

There are several possibilities to explain this: the clock of time bringing me (YOU TOO) closer to death, outfitted with a guaranteed malaise to last until I die; a dire spiritual collapse, independent of age, leaving me doomed to run a fatalistic path determined purely by momentum and external forces.

I reject the second possibility on sassy, personal grounds. I admit that the first possibility, my own age reducing my desire for loud noises (AKA maturity), is a determining factor, but not the exclusive one. I offer a more hopeful alternative: I have simply reached the finish line of this particular Taco Friday™ brand of inquiry. I have done the same thing for years, and therefore have learned the conclusion of such actions. Further experiments are no longer necessary.

What does this mean to you, enjoyer of tacos and presumed friend of Adam?

 I'll tell you the craziest part first and it might well just drive you bananas. Taco Friday, purveyor of spicy sandwiches from the south, will no longer be a strictly taco-exclusive format. Tacos, being well and good and convenient and delicious and oh god don't blame me, it's not you, it's me -- their regime as the exclusive entrée of the eponymous Friday night celebration will come to an end. Will there be tacos? Yes. Will these tacos be the primary offering on most nights? Yes. Will there be... enchiladas? Fritters with a sauce? Sometimes.

Less crazy than non-tortilla-based food items is that life will go on essentially unchanged. All I want is people in my home, eating food and drinking (preferably) whiskey. The major difference is in the shades, my own admission that the kernel of Taco Friday has been solidly established. It hopefully dwells inside of you, a malignant cancer that will come to light in ten years in the form of your very first divorce.

You can thank me later.

On The Generations Of Taco Friday

The Taco Friday of today is almost unrecognizable compared its original form, as different as a cat is to a passion fruit. Take the most obvious elements -- punches, genital insults, canned shellfish prizes that you “win” -- all of these ubiquitous themes were absent from the first Taco Friday. Indeed, even the Great Mission was missing. Few besides your host have seen the entire saga unfold, have been there for every step. Walk with me, then, through the archives. Any factual misrepresentations are entirely unintentional and corrections are welcome.

The First Generation of Taco Friday

Taco Friday was born in Central Square, Cambridge. It owes its name to my first of two roommates, Aileen, while I lived in a basement behind the Whole Foods. I was a recent college graduate and my apartment would attest to this fact; exposed (and often unbearably hot) pipes, “found” couches and seats, and disdain for feng shui defined the space. It was carpeted and needed a dehumidifier badly.

In those days, Taco Friday was more of an excuse to invite people to play Guitar Hero than it was a sledgehammer of truth. Indeed, the first Taco Friday was a gathering of exactly three people, later to become an assortment between four to seven. The tone was jovial, rarely threatening (except occasionally focused directly at Whitey, I am so sorry for this), and the tacos of fairly poor quality. However, Ortega products were even then strictly verboten.

This time period saw a seeding of the only two marriages to blossom in the fecund soil of Taco Friday. My own ego, however, lacking any well-defined support structures in my post-collegiate world, began to fall into itself. God, having died of his pity for mankind, was of no use. Powerful magic was needed to stave off collapse, and so powerful magic was used.

The Second Generation of Taco Friday: Doug

        

In comparison to the lighthearted fun times of the first generation, the second was defined by badness. Badness abound, badness unbound. The beating heart of Taco Friday began to coalesce in this era and a wisp of continuity can be drawn from this point in our venerated institution’s history to the present. Elements such as resolution through confrontation, freedom from fear, “pure being” were all present and, quite importantly, people partook readily. There was little, if any, limp dick shit.

My second roommate, Doug, liked Fun and was an excellent vector for the celebration, despite legitimate objections to him. Taco Friday was frequented by his labmates, who created a constantly-changing landscape of characters which fueled the feeling of a frat party; dear readers, this is not necessarily a bad thing. There were punches, indoor smoking, and an extremely threatening BB gun.

The maelstrom began slowly to turn but in a stupid, undirected manner. All of this excited me greatly and made me feel like a tiny tyrant. The tacos did not improve in quality during this time and were mostly a greasy mess.

The Third Generation of Taco Friday: Somerville, Part 1

After moving to Somerville, the momentum of Taco Friday started to pick up dramatically. If you can remember the space, dear reader, it was clean and fresh and new. The floors were gorgeous and the kitchen amply spacious. My knowledge of what a taco is, and what a taco should be, finally started to come together. “Fuck you, boring ground beef tacos,” I seemed to say. “Hello, modest culinary successes.”

Beyond the new space being attractive and inviting, the tone of Taco Friday became both lively and refined. Since the casual observer would not likely consider what he or she was casually observing at Taco Friday to be “refined,” I will clarify. The nonsense of earlier times was still there, but it wasn’t quite so baroque. This is to say, it was obvious that all attendees had bachelor’s degrees or more. To further clarify, the analogy could be made as such:

2nd generation Taco Friday : 3rd generation Taco Friday ::

 :

The tenor slowly began to transition from nonsense (wooo ha ha WOO!) to The Modern Taco Friday. It was, as Highlights for kids would put it on their back cover, “fun with a purpose.” The attendee composition was ideal (here’s looking at you, dear reader), the variety was suitable, and the food was getting better. People engaged in displays of Dionysian joy, and I reveled in it. Punches happened often, people got electrocuted, and shenanigans were rarely called. Polite conversation must have occurred at some point but the main draw was unabashed affirmation.

I was happily 25 years-old and could never, ever die. I punched someone through a chair, both riled up and completely infuriated by Four Loko; I’m sorry, Sara.

I am not a mother, therefore I have little hesitation telling others which of my children I love most. I will tell you that this is my favorite child, she is golden and perfect.

The Fourth Generation of Taco Friday: A Return to Cambridge

I admit: compared to the previous venue, Taco Fridays in Harvard Square were a disappointment to me. They never quite reached the heights that I perceived them to have reached in Somerville. Was I living in the past, wanting so badly for it to reoccur that I pulled my own Weekend At Bernie’s One and Two, or was Taco Friday doomed to live in the shadow of its own salad days? It’s difficult to tease out, but in short, momentum was not transferred perfectly from one vessel to the other.

Instead of lingering on the negatives, let’s highlight the positives. If I allow myself to gloat, I will say that my culinary ability improved by leaps and bounds during this time. Those tacos were delicious, oit? I will also say that we watched more Jem during those days than any of us had experienced since 1988 (probably, I don’t tell you how to live your life).

There is a clear, negative aspect of your then hosts’ relationships which spilled over into the Tacoverse. This is outside of the scope of a historical reflection, but for this, I’m sorry, kids. I still love you, even if I only get to see you on weekends.

The Fifth Generation of Taco Friday: Somerville, Part 2

Stay tuned, dear readers. The final installment of this series will not be posted until later in the week, so I will announce now that tacos are goin’ down this Friday, February 22nd, an intercession for the living by the living. As always, RSVP. The Taco Friday customer service email node is available for questions. Please let me know if you need direction(s) (street, moral, etc.).

On Taco Friday; On Its Mission and Modes

Taco Friday has been a social staple of a small group of people for what has been nearly seven years. It has undergone massive shifts in identity, culture, and focus; volume, sanity, and magnitude of physical violence; location, culinary skill, and epistemological tone. Clothed in the trappings of an ostensibly taco-themed gathering of young to no-longer-qualified-by-an-adjective adults, it is a spiritual birthing place. Look barely beneath the surface and see an environment meant to encourage individual expression and exploration. If I have not been a complete failure, you, the participant/celebrant of Taco Friday will agree that it has been a time of joyful, honest expression and freedom from fear.

By freedom from fear, I mean destroying old walls and pointless mores, archaic modes of thought that would have otherwise have been brought from cradle to grave. Spoke Zarathustra,

“You shall love your children’s lands: let this love be your new nobility - the undiscovered land in the furthest sea! … You shall make amends to your children for being the children of your fathers: thus shall you redeem all that is past!”

Since I am a college graduate, as are most of my friends, I can assume that most attendees of Taco Friday have stared inward with at least a small amount of self-criticism. Beliefs questioned and, when found to be beleaguered, let loose or reformulated in a manner more consistent. It is a drastic failure, however, when this evaluation is a singular process that occurs once per lifetime and not with every new day. Listen: ontological clarity occurs neither at sixteen years of age, when we are filled with a molten hatred for authority and clamor for revolution, nor when we are twenty-one and descend from the mountaintop, laws in hand. It does not occur on your mother’s deathbed or your father’s or your own.

Does anything set our views and morals apart from the Cro-Magnons of decades past except for the intervening years? Of course not; the last generation’s modalities (and those of the generation prior, etc.) seem increasingly quaint and parochial precisely because they belong to the last generation. We are not of the generation that has finally, god damnit, gotten it right.

If we wish to avoid this fate -- becoming living artifacts -- and if we wish to avoid stagnation, the solution is continuous identification of one’s failures and perpetual rectification of one’s faults. This does not mean that we are lost in the fog, always wrong and the light just out of reach. Instead, it means that we readily acknowledge the necessary imperfections that come with being an alive piece of meat. We are not condemned to a sad and cruel life of self-flagellation. We are not victims of the machinery of Samsāra.

I do not come to bury Taco Friday, nor to praise it (HAHA, JOKE: I AM HERE TO PRAISE IT). There have been times of substantial shuffling in the past, either when I have moved or when dear friends have moved on. Indeed, there have been at least five generations of Taco Friday (Of the Generations Of Taco Friday, to follow), but something different is happening now. My recent return to Somerville comes at a time of a personal sea change that is fundamentally incompatible with the old tenets. I previously asserted that eternal vigilance is required to avoid moral and epistemological stasis; however, if this is one’s only imperative, one becomes intellectually poor. To maintain the nautical metaphor: if you build too close to the tideline, all you have to show for it are your sandcastles.

Coming soon, a history lesson: On The Generations Of Taco Friday.