I found $20. Things got weird

A story about shoe leather journalism, the price we pay for truth, and tacos

Whenever I go for a walk, I have this recurring fantasy about finding a large sum of cash. Sometimes I think about what the cash could do for me: pay off our mortgage, pay off the car, fully fund my retirement. Other times I think about how I could use the cash to help people: scholarships, house the unhoused, buy Facebook (and turn it off).

The larger the amount of cash in my fantasy, the more likely my mind is to wander into criminal territory. Maybe the cash is actually one of those exploding dye packs they use to catch bank robbers. Or, maybe the money is counterfeit, in which case I’m absolutely buying Facebook because turning that wretched website off and hoodwinking Mark Zuckerberg would be the ultimate win-win. Or, maybe the cash belongs to a drug cartel, and I’ll have go on the run, like Josh Brolin’s character in No Country for Old Men, which would be a bad situation, but nevertheless a great movie.

The possibilities of this fantasy / nightmare are limited only by my imagination and the duration of my walk. I’ve never found a large sum of money, but the other day I did find a picture of Andrew Jackson, which is worth exactly twenty dollars.

My first thought was that I was on one of those hidden camera shows where they tempt unsuspecting dupes by putting them in low-stakes moral quandaries.

Is he schmuck because he took the money, or is he a schmuck because he gave the money back? We’ll find out after the commercial break.

Keeping one eye on the money, I used the other eye to scan the street for hidden cameras. I didn’t see any. Either I was alone, or the show’s production crew was damn good.

I hoped for the best and prepared for the worst by dreaming up a plausible cover story to tell the television crew, if it came to that, as knelt down to pick up the money.

As it turned out, the money wasn’t part of a hidden camera show. It was just money. And as soon as I put it in my pocket, it began burning a hole in said pocket.

When I got home, I went on Notes—Substack’s peculiar social network, where charlatans promise the secrets to growing your Substack for an immodest fee and writers grumble about all the charlatans, when they’re not grumbling about the stuff writers usually grumble about: money, the broken publishing-media-Hollywood industrial complex, or the algorithmic injustice of some dude named George Saunders, who they’ve never even heard of, going viral with some bullshit piece, when not a single person has even clicked on their story about an AI that thinks its an Abyssinian cat hacks into Barnes & Noble and orders ten billion copies of a self-published novel about a vampire Bonnie and Clyde who rob blood banks so they can live (and love) forever.

Anyway, I asked the Notes community to take a break from its usual nonsense to help me figure out my nonsense.

I didn’t do a rigorous analysis of the responses, but ice cream won by a country mile, which according to a recent study, is the same length as a city mile, only twenty-eight times more boring.

Saving the money and buying lottery tickets weren’t very popular with the Notes community. But a few people wrote their own answers, which is a sure-fire way to fail a multiple choice test.

There were the people who suggested I buy crypto—a Shibboleth of sorts, because they see crypto as a can’t-miss investment, whereas I see it as a can’t-win gamble. There were the people who said I should donate the money—an unexpected response that made me feel better about the Notes community. And then my pal Sheila said I should buy tacos for everyone, which turned out to be something of a harbinger.

But I chose ice cream because I believe in democracy and because ice cream fucking rules.

My plan was to wait for the weekend so that I could make the pilgrimage to McConnell’s, which makes the best ice cream. Sorry, Ben. Sorry, Jerry. But as the saying goes, the ice cream man plans and god laughs.

While surfing the internet, I stumbled upon an alarming headline.

The story was classic clickbait. It wasn’t about tacos, not really. It was about California’s new minimum wage law that mandates $20 per hour for fast food workers. These stories are part of the California Apocalypse™ genre, which is one of the most popular genres on the internet, especially among people who hate California as much as they love confirmation bias.

But back to the tacos. Was there a taco crisis?

I jumped in my car and drove to the nearest Taco Bell. The over-paid socialist at the drive-thru told me that the only taco crisis was people who go to Del Taco. At Del Taco, the fat cat fast food worker at the drive-thru told me the only taco crisis was people who order tacos at Jack in the Box. I didn’t go to Jack in the Box, because I didn’t want to be part of the problem. Instead, I went to my favorite taco stand, Cactus Taquerias #3.

“Is there a taco crisis in California?” I asked the woman behind the counter.

“No.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

At that point, I could’ve stopped. I had already done more reporting than the outlets that were selling the taco crisis narrative. But I am an award-winning journalist, which means I go the extra mile, whether it’s a city mile, or a country mile.

“I’ll have four Al pastor tacos, extra cilantro.”

Delicious proof that Situation Normal does original reporting

I ate the tacos. They were freaking fire, as always. When I finished, I was satisfied that the so-called taco crisis was yet another manufactured media narrative.

Had the narrative been created by Texas, a state that derives its self-worth by shitting on California? Was it a product of a reckless East Coast media establishment that never misses a crisis, but wouldn’t know a taco from a torta? Or, had this “crisis” been constructed by Big Taco to cause panic and sell more tacos?

These were important questions, but I had blown my research budget on tacos, a diet coke, a generous tip, and a buck-fifty for the parking meter.

Based on my extensive reporting, I can confirm that the California taco crisis is a lie. But there is a crisis in journalism, which makes it difficult to cut through the bullshit. The truth is one obvious casualty of the journalism crisis. But as this story makes clear, democratically selected ice cream is also in peril.

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Stick around and chat!

I ask, you tell.

1. You find $20. What would you do with it? Be honest.

2. You find $20 billion. What would you do with it? Be creative!

3. There’s a (hypothetical) ice cream crisis, and you can only save one flavor from extinction. Which one will it be? Give us the scoop!

4. Is it just me, or is it unAmerican to hate a particular state?

5. Where do you get your tacos? Dish!