Pig lips and my fifteen minutes of fame

While on vacation in Los Angeles last week, the moment it hit me that I was very far from home was surprisingly not when I stepped out of the car and felt the one hundred degree wave of heat hit me, or when I saw a fake tan on a twelve year old, or when I had to pay five dollars and some odd cents for a tank of gas. No, the moment I realized I was really in L.A. was when I was sitting down, eating a hot dog. Or, actually, when I was sitting down waiting to eat a hot dog.

I heard about Pink’s during my last trip down to Southern California about a year ago. The guy I was staying with at the time talked of wondrous things like juicy polish sausages, drippy, melty cheese, tortilla-wrapped triple dogs, perfectly sweet and crispy onion rings, and general artery-clogging amazery. I've been dying to eat there ever since, especially since I got the feeling that they must sprinkle magic fairy crack dust on top of their chili, so I made it a special birthday request that my friends and I take a break from our thirteen hour theme park days (no joke) and grab a bite.

Unfortunately, apparently everyone else in L.A. knows about this little hole in the wall stand as well, because when we got there the line of people waiting to order their customized heart attacks wrapped well around the building. Half of us (including me) decided to hold up a table in the outside seating area while the other half kept our place in line, and after an hour or so of waiting in the scorching sun my friends and I noticed a large Taxi pulling into the parking lot, mostly because it had an entire camera crew just behind it. Suddenly there were Pink’s employees everywhere, swarming around the table nearest us like angry worker bees or a group of Tasmanian Devils on speed, only to leave just as fast as they had come, but the dirty plastic furniture was now gleaming white, smelling of citrus and topped with a tiny Reserved sign and a bottle of Pink’s water with a rose sticking out of it.

I didn’t recognize the family (a mom, dad and two children) that ended up sitting there, but even if I had I don’t think anyone could cause me to be so star-struck that I would have ignore the high-pitched squealing about how amazing the hot dogs were, or the horrifying cackles that came from the children when their father tried to stuff his entire hot dog in his mouth, or the contrived “MMM’S” and tummy rubbing, or most importantly the phone call from their friend which was (of course) entirely on speaker phone because the mother of the family said “OH MY GO-O-O-D, WISH YOU WERE HERE BECAUSE IT WAS TOTALLY WORTH THE TWO HOUR WAIT!” before she wiped a pile of meat off her face. Because did they really wait two hours? No, they didn’t. I think they waited a total of fifteen minutes while my ass was slowly melting and becoming one with a plastic chair, while my friends were on their second hour of waiting in line and probably developing heat rash, all for some hot dogs.

After the whole ordeal with the seemingly famous family was over (just as the second half of our group was finally ordering) one of the cameramen came up to our table and said something to the effect of, Hey, sign these disclosure forms because we’re filming a reality show and you were in the frame the majority of the time.

I didn’t read the form but I’m pretty sure I’m not allowed to actually say what the program is called is or what channel it will be on, but I will tell you that if you see me in the background of a show premiering some time in the fall, that yes I am definitely mouthing obscenities on purpose, and that dark liquid in my cup that looks really innocent and soda-like? It’s rum.