The Shocker

It’s something that looms over your head since you are old enough to listen. It’s the steak and potatoes of many male stand-up comedian’s shtick. It’s a 10 foot by 10 foot room getting smaller by the second. It’s the Moon River scene from Fletch.  It’s all it is made out to be. It’s not for the faint of heart. It’s The Shocker.

It’s supposed to hit when you’re forty, but I deftly evaded the appointments for a year. Scheduling a business meeting that would force me to cancel it. Making up pitiful excuses. Hell, just canceling the appointment for no reason whatsoever. Except fear.

I finally made it to the appointment, about thirteen months behind schedule, and only then because my wife’s eyes told me she couldn’t be with a man who hadn’t had his prostate checked. Well, her mouth told me that, but same difference. Do it for the kids!

Things went well. Ticker was good. BP was 100/60, which was a shocker (not The Shocker) in its own right. The doc and I had wonderful desultory conversation. I thought I had even talked my way out of it, with my smooth desultory conversation and all.

The Culprit

Smiles were interrupted by the telltale smack of a latex glove on skin. My shoulders sagged. The doc gave me a look that said: “Think of it from my end.” Good point. I assumed the position.

Years of angst, a few seconds of discomfort, and ultimately a clear mind for a year that my prostate was in swell shape. It wasn’t that bad, but keep in mind that I told a friend that my vasectomy wasn’t that bad, and his boys blew up to the size of a grapefruit. Results may vary.

Get yours checked out at a GP near you.

Yesteryear.....and Queso

Felix (see, no apostrophe S)

A friend sent me a link to photos of vintage Houston, and included was a 1962 picture of our favorite Mexican food joint, Felix Mexican Restaurant (do you see an apostrophe S at the end? No. It’s Felix, not Felix’s, just Felix.) Felix, hands down, had the best queso in town. It wasn’t the noxious blend of block cheese and a can of Rotel. For years I thought it was just a....well, I didn’t know what it was, except delicioso. Every once in a while, the Houston Chronicle would print the Felix queso recipe. The recipe listed a lot of ingredients that I found difficult to believe were in that boiling cauldron of goodness in front of me. After all, the queso had a thick layer of grease on top of it, so how did they get tomatoes in there? I never saw a tomato.

I think we were in college when we got the news (typical tyrannical procedure: wait until the adherents are away to make your move): they were closing our Felix. And they did.

I don’t believe in the incubus, the succubus, vampires or werewolves, but it has been said that if you look into the eyes of the Beast (the Beast being the former Felix location), you would turn to stone. I have not turned to stone, mainly because I have NEVER looked at the building since our Felix was ungraciously evicted. I have heard rumors that it has been a dress store, furniture store and the like, but I cannot confirm it for the obvious reasons. I wish any future tenants of the building only the worst. Nothing personal.

Urban folklore states that the only cure, once foolishly turned to stone by looking at the Beast, is to have Felix queso rubbed all over you. “But, Stonewall, how can....,” I hear you ask. I admit that it is a bit of a quandary: how does one, once foolishly turned to stone, apply Felix queso to oneself? Your wife or girlfriend? Husband or boyfriend? Maybe a really, really understanding friend? We are drifting here........

The other Felix location has now closed, too, and we are left with only our grease riddled memories. So to reminisce, I did what any devout Felix parishioner would do: I waited for Mom to go out of town and made a batch of Felix queso with the kids.

Felix Queso:  Dog Approved

Like any self-respecting restaurant that has their recipes published, Felix went ahead and left out some of the key ingredients (though I am still confused by the tomato). Or they changed the proportions. Or I just messed up. It wasn't exact, but it was close. And in a world devoid of authentic Felix queso, close was good enough. (If you can believe it, my version needed more grease).