It was a snowy Thursday when I decided to brave the slippery roads and visit a music store to shop for an electric guitar. The electric that I had in mind was a cheap one–a no name knockoff that I intended to modify with better add-ons later.

My budget was $100.

But before I drove off, I called my friend, a local music legend named El Rocker, for any suggestions that he thought would be best suited for the project I had in mind.

However, as soon as I told him that I was in the hunt for bargain guitars, he immediately cut me off in mid-sentence: “Why get garbage when you can get gold,” he said with utter force that my iPhone almost rebooted.

“Well, I am not really searching for gold, El Rocker,” I replied politely. “I fancy myself as an alchemist that can transform garbage into gold.”

“That’s not good,” El Rocker snapped back.” “You don’t settle for less if you can have the best. Get a Les Paul 57 Goldtop instead.”

“But I don’t have $3,000,” I protested.

“But you do have a credit card so let’s go,” the indestructible loud voice from the other end of the line commanded.

So I picked El Rocker up and drove to the nearest music store. On our way he gave a lecture about his view of the American way of life.

“We are a very lucky nation. We can have anything we want here,” he said.

“In America, we should always have the best.”

He then said a litany of the best things that that America made available for him: a BMW X3, a 2007 Mercedes Coupe, a Harley Davidson motorcycle, an apartment in the Upper West Side, all the best electronic gadgets from internet-ready LED TVs to robot vacuum cleaners.

He also has a fine taste in clothes and gets them either in Soho, on Carnaby Street, or in Paris. He wears real leather and has enough bling to make 50 Cent look like a penny.

“Living large is living well,” he declared. “You are what you buy.”

He also had a few unkind words for my 1995 Jeep truck: “Get rid of this clunker and get yourself a Jaguar.”

To tell you the truth, it was an exhausting drive with El Rocker, but at last we reached our destination: a small mom and pop’s guitar shop. When El Rocker saw that we weren’t in those big corporate music stores but in a tiny shop that could be mistaken for a pharmacy selling illegal drugs, he went medieval.

“What the hell are we doing in this shit hole? This place ain’t got no shine. This hole is for losers! Let’s go to a real store,” he demanded.

And so we went.

In the music superstore, I saw one of those cheap electrics that I had in mind. And despite his almost violent protests, I purchased the axe for $125.

“That guitar is so cheap, your fingers will get splinters from that god-forsaken fret board,” he said. “For me, great guitars start over a grand. I have an Esquire relic, a 57 Goldtop, a 57 Telecaster, a signed Blackie, a Hofner bass, and a George Harrison 1964 Rickenbacker 360 12 string. I am planning to get a PRS soon.”

Without a doubt, the value of his guitar collection could easily be the GNP of a small island country.

At the end of the day, I felt stressed. I shouldn’t have called El Rocker, I thought to myself. Worse, I was hungry. And the thought of having supper with this guy bothered me, but I had no choice.  So I offered.

“Hey, El Rocker, I recently had a delivery of pasture-raised beef and some winter squash fresh from the farm. I’ll whip something up at home and you should join me for supper. These are all organic and even beyond organic foods. Only the best for you, of course.”

Surprisingly, he shook his head.

“Nah, save yourself some time. Let’s go to Burger King,” he said. “They have a Buy– One–Whopper–Take–Three–Cheeseburgers deal there.”

“ Oh yeah? I suppose, since you want the best, you prefer the order bumped up to extra large size for an additional seventy-five cents?” I asked.

“You’re learning fast, my friend,” he quipped. “You’re learning fast.”

The place was festive as usual. Bright colored balloons hovered overhead and kids played around with reckless abandon–tumbling on trampolines, throwing light rubber balls, shrieking with unfathomable delight and gliding down a big plastic tube slide. It was a wonderland in a restaurant–Heaven on earth.

Amid the happy chaos and happy meals, there I was, all grown up, jumping for joy with a balloon tied on my left wrist and a juicy, aromatic triple decker burger with cheese and mayo in my right hand. I gave the signature burger one hard stare and attacked with full rigor and sincerity. When I emerged from my purposeful first bite on that greasy treasure of a sandwich, my face was decorated by colorful condiments of yellow, red, and white like I was a citizen of the United Colors of Benneton.

And oh, that first bite! As my teeth sank into that multi-layered food, the 100% all-beef patty gave a cute little resistance like a young girl playing hard to get. When it gave in, it exploded with all the goodness only a legendary fast food item could provide. It was delicious.

But that’s not all. There was another set of combo moves that could top that first bite experience. Expert fast food regulars like me referred to this as the Sick Choke Combo.

Let me explain.

The idea was to eat the burger and the French fries in alternating modes. Take a bite on the burger, and then stuff a handful of fries in your mouth. This would go on until the burger and the fries were no more– and there was no drinking–yet.

To complete this combo, you had to push the stagnant food in your mouth and throat down to your tummy with the ice-cold sugary innovation of man that is called soda. Regular Coke was the hardcore choice, of course. And then, as the food slowly traveled down your esophagus, a spoonful of hot fudge sundae would seal the deal. In today’s lingo: FTW!

We admired fellow junkies who could accomplish this combo with style. One favorite of mine, a friend named Toto, grooved to the complex rhythms of Antonio Carlos Jobim’s One Note Samba while performing the trick. Really smooth!

There was nothing better than this for us fast food junkies.

You see, even back then, I adored food–in a wrong kind of way. Not to mention that the food I romanced then is now universally known as junk. I could be in denial about this for as long as I can– or until my first stroke or my first symptoms of blindness due to diabetes. I knew all along that what I was putting in my body were unhealthy. But I could not accept it. I was like loving the wrong girl for all the wrong reasons.

Now I am taking steps to accept this truth and change my lifestyle. That is why I am posting these stories out to the vast cyber universe– to remind me where I was and where I am going.

If I don’t remind myself, heaven help me, I am scared I might  go full circle and live the fast food junkie’s life all over again.