The Panda Express Monkey: Off My Back
I've been meaning to craft a lengthy and thoughtful post about ethnic change in urban neighborhoods for a couple of days now -- all set off by a particularly atrocious study I came across, which was written by a Harvard professor who got his PhD, I'm ashamed to say, at the U of C.
But that's not happening tonight. Instead I thought I'd mention that I think my Panda Express jones has finally died. This after I dented the rims on two tires in search for a Panda Express (right near Our Lady of the Fullerton Underpass, by the way) -- and received a $50 parking ticket for running downtown one day to load up on orange chicken.
I bought lunch today at Panda Express (I was downtown for some classes for work), and I have to say it wasn't very good. Very greasy and salty and blah. The same thing happened to me with Chalupas and Burger King Angus burgers -- fast food equivalents of Temptation Island, something briefly and intensely fascinating that I live to regret for a long, long time.
But that's not happening tonight. Instead I thought I'd mention that I think my Panda Express jones has finally died. This after I dented the rims on two tires in search for a Panda Express (right near Our Lady of the Fullerton Underpass, by the way) -- and received a $50 parking ticket for running downtown one day to load up on orange chicken.
I bought lunch today at Panda Express (I was downtown for some classes for work), and I have to say it wasn't very good. Very greasy and salty and blah. The same thing happened to me with Chalupas and Burger King Angus burgers -- fast food equivalents of Temptation Island, something briefly and intensely fascinating that I live to regret for a long, long time.
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