Taco Bell Drive-by

I was out running errands the other day and I decided to pick up some food at Taco Bell. I used to be a big Taco Bell fan, because I read an article that said their cuisine is the healthiest fast food out there. In my thirties, I hated cooking and ate at Taco Bell 2-3 times every week. My normal order was usually 2-3 tacos, 1-2 burritos and a large drink and that’s probably why I was grossly obese for several decades.

Their menu back in the 1980s wasn’t very creative. Every month they would unveil a new item like the Beefy Mini Quesadilla, the Cheesarito, the Crunchwrap Supreme, the Indigestible, and the Double Tostada—all of which are now long gone.

Now, I join the Bell system maybe 3-4 times per year, usually when I’m rushed and can’t find a better alternative.

So I picked up the food and started home. Less than one mile away, I saw a beautiful Golden Retriever and a Chihuahua out in the middle of a very busy road.  They definitely looked guilty and didn’t know what to do. Freedom is just another word for nothing left to lose, and my fear was that one of these mutts was going to get spooked, run in front of a car and lose its life. 

I pulled right up to the pair and opened my passenger side door. I offered them a taco and the Retriever sniffed at it and backed off. Never talk to strangers especially if they offer treats, he thought wisely. The Chihuahua apparently had no issues with it and jumped right in!

I love Chihuahuas. We had a rescue named Gracie and she was a delight—no barking, no biting, no scooting and a total lap dog.  She was patient and sweet and we had her for at least 5 years after adopting her at age 10. We also had a guest Chihuahua who would stay with us once in a while and she was the opposite of Gracie. When I met Choo Choo, the first thing he did was bit my nose, and it got worse from there.

Now back to the action. The Golden is panicking now and runs to the curb. I leave the Cheech in the vehicle and cross the street, and all of a sudden a truck comes flying around the corner. “Do you know these dogs?” I asked him. He answered affirmatively with a tone that was a combination of frustration and embarrassment.

“I’m constantly fixing my backyard fence, but these dogs keep finding ways to get out,” he said, followed by a litany of spicey words I can’t repeat.

I can totally relate. When I was a kid, we had a mutt named Maggie who was always an escape risk. My father reinforced all of the fences and gates in our back yard. He added chicken wire, looked for every little gap in the fence and patched it and even drove wooden stakes deep into the ground. But, it never worked and the dog got out all the time. Immediately after each escape, Maggie would go to the front door and wait patiently for someone to let her back in. The message was—"You can’t stop me from getting out!” It became a competition between man and dog, and the dog was winning.

So, back to the action--the dog’s owner has the Golden safely in his truck now--what was a relief. Then he looks at me and says“Where’s my Chihuahua?”

Oh no, I thought, the dog is in my car with all that Taco Bell!

By the time we got back to my vehicle, it was too late. The Chihuahua ate it all, including most of the wrappers too. The owner yelled at the dog, so he jumped into the backseat and looked very busted. There were lettuce and salsa all over my seats and believe it or not, cheese on the passenger side window!

The owner grabs the dog and then helps me to clean up the vehicle. He then gives me $20 to get more Taco Bell. I was happy to get the dogs back to their owner, although I really didn't do much, other than feed one of them. The last thing I saw was this fat little Chihuahua who didn't care--he got his and he was content. Priceless.

Ninety Years of Teaching, Learning and Leading

     My dad died on December 26 at the age of 90. Edmund L. Attanasio was known in Old Greenwich, CT and then later in La Canada, CA (where he resided for 50 years) as a great Little League baseball coach, mentor and father. Many of his former players still fondly talk about "Mr. A" and his championship teams, and that is why I am focusing on this aspect of his amazing life.
     After graduation from Columbia University and a stint in the Korean War, my dad got his Master's Degree from Michigan State; landed a job with Reader's Digest in the advertising department and worked there for more than 40 years. He eventually became the Ad Sales Manager for the publication when we moved to southern California and then worked for Sunset Magazine as an ad consultant during his semi-retirement years. He worked into his 70s and was also the President of the Los Angeles Ad Club.
     In the late 1960s, he was living a busy life with two rambunctious kids (to say the least), but he never lost his passion for baseball and teaching young men how to play the game right. He ran his teams like Vince Lombardi, but with a smile rather than a scowl. He coached all of his sons (Ed, John and Gino) and loved every minute of it.
     He treated it like a job. He studied to be a better coach during every offseason by reading books like The Science of Hitting by Ted Williams and The Winning Hitter: How to Play Championship Baseball by Charley Lau and integrating them into his drills.
     He continually drilled his teams teaching them the fundamentals of the game and you could tell because his teams knew how to bunt, sacrifice and take pitches deep into the count--and that's why they won year after year.
     Each season, my dad would invariably find some kid who was new to town with unfulfilled potential and turn him into an instant star. One teenager who played for my father threw the ball with a sidearm motion and his parents were scared that he would get hurt throwing the ball that way. But, my father took him to a local orthopedist and was told that throwing the baseball sidearm was natural for this young man. As a result, my dad's star pitcher struck out the rest of the league all season long, throwing a submarine ball.
     This overnight sensation reminded me of Mark Fidrych, Vida Blue or later Fernando Valenzuela. The following year the kid got drafted number one from some other team, but he wasn't able to emulate the 15 minutes of fame he achieved on my dad's team. But, by then, my dad already had another prospect to work with and mold into another champion.
     My father was a Yankee fan so we were initially Yankee fans too. I remember my first game. It was in 1967 at Yankee Stadium, the Bombers vs. the Twins, a Sunday doubleheader. The Yankees stunk horribly that season with a hobbling Mickey Mantle at the end of his career and flashy Joe Pepitone, with his ridiculously long hair (toupee) and swagger. I guess at the time he was going to be the next great Yankee star (laugh). We stayed after the game and hung out by the player’s parking lot to yell at them for autographs as they drove off in their Dodge Darts and Cadillacs.
     It became a ritual. First, we would go to the game and afterward to my grandmother's restaurant in the Bronx (149th St. and Southern Blvd.) for a meal of Pasta Carbonara, Eggplant Parmesan and Pasta e Fagioli with Escarole, and then it was back to suburbia in Old Greenwich, CT. (continued)