Damsel In Distress

The "Damsel in Distress" seems to be one of those situations men flock to. I don't know exactly what it is. Maybe it gives them the opportunity to feel like some kind of prince Valient coming to the rescue. But, come to the rescue they do. One night at one of the dance clubs, I saw my ex with a new woman. It was somewhat of a shock for two reasons: One, I hadn't seen him in months (which, by the way, was a good thing). Two, because the woman he was with was not a stranger to me. As a matter of fact, not only had she seen me and my ex together at that very club, but she'd frequently called me looking for her ex. But she doesn't know that I know it's her calling me. Anyway, there he was dancing with her and sittin' with her and the only reason I had an interest was because it was her. So, why should that bother me? Well, I know she's been with another cowboy who's shown lots of interest in me. I've seen her dancing with another of my exs, not that I have a lot of exs. And now she was with my present ex. Again, you might ask, "Well, so what?" So I'll tell you "what". She's not your best looking woman, your best dresser, or the happiest person you've ever seen. In other words, without being cruel, she's fat, kinda sloppy, and a controlling b----! So I began to worry that she and I were similar. I couldn't handle the thought and got angry.
So getting back to the "Damsel in Distress". I headed over to where Chaparra and Joey were sitting to say something bad about the b----, where I took a quick turn, which might have been close to the speed of light, and suddenly found myself with my feet flying up in the air and landing on my behind. It all happened so fast that I didn't know it happened until I looked up and saw all these men running to my rescue. Let me just say right now, the sight of these men can make you forget anything. I totally forgot how embarrassing this was and how stupid I must look and who might have seen me and how bad I hurt. All that went through my mind was, "Oh my god!! What a bunch of beautiful faces looking down at me!" Gorgeous smiles (aaaahhhhh), black hair, dark eyes, what a sight!!! White hats, black hats, belt buckles, boots. Some with their hats respectfully in their hands. Some reaching down for me. Some asking if I was alright. And all of them concerned and helping me. WOW!!! Who could ask for more?
Me, a "Damsel in Distress"! Delicate, helpless, in need of being rescued. And along came those virile heroes, not in shining armor, but heroes none-the-less. Although that's not an approach I admire, I can understand why those frail, weak, mousy women are continually approached by men. And, looking like they're frightened by the man's prowess, are so popular. And guess what, they even have their choice of men! But, that's ok, so do I, and I don't have to go around falling on my ass to get them!!! Although it did work really well!

Cowboy Hats

I've often wondered, haven't you, what it is about cowboy hats that are so alluring? Yesterday my sister and I went to a 49er game (they won by the way). And yes, I actually do more than go out dancing. We both decided, unknowingly, to wear our red cowboy hats. We attracted attention. Guys who otherwise wouldn't have, said hi and talked to us. As we walked around Candlestick, we received lots of smiling gazes too. "Wow," I said to my sister, "there's something about a cowboy hat that attracts people." "You should know," she responded. And yes, I should know. So here goes.
I'll just combine Friday night and Saturday night and the three, yes three (actually there were four), bars/clubs I went to. First of all, my escort, whom I'll call Omg, wears what Chaparra deemed a "taco hat". These hats, as you may or may not know, are from Durango, via Chicago, which, by the way, has a large Mexican population. I'd really like to visit there some day, but I'm digressing. The brim of the taco hat folds up dramatically on the sides close to the crown. It has an arrogant image. A cowboy who's prowess is stylishly displayed! And the way he wears it says even a little bit more about him. Of course the taco hat comes in black or white. Some cowboys swear by black and others by white. To me, and the other women I know, the color is inconsequential, it's what's under the hat that matters. Namely, the vaquero, and how he carries the hat.
From there the brims and crowns, not to mention the creases, come in all shapes, sizes, colors, as do the cowboys. The use of the hat depends on the vaqueros level of proficiency. One function is to draw attention. And that, it does quite well and in various ways. Just sitting on the head, as I've said, makes it's own statement. Tilt it to the side, wear it low over the brow, tilt it back, or just plain upright and he's already communicated to you a little about himself. Everyone has the images of the "youngin'" whose eager and full of energy, wearing his hat tilted back so that he can see and participate in everything around him. Everyone also has the image of the cool, tilted over one eye cowboy who saunters by attracting attention. Moving the hat also draws attention. Twirling it around on the dance floor, or tossing it into the air, or passing it around your body as well as merely adjusting it on your head, gives out signals of prowess and virility. Using it as a fan, as in fueling a fire, is also a good move for fueling fires on the dance floor. MMMMmmmmm! It certainly can make things hot out there, especially when the hats are twirling and fanning, with boot heels stomping and bodies gyrating. Why, we have a real vaquero hoedown goin' on! Try it sometime! It's intoxicating. I guarantee it.

THEY SHOOT HORSES DON'T THEY

Okay, so it's an old movie, what with Jane Fonda in her young days, but it's a movie that frequently comes to mind after a jam packed weekend of dancing. For example, my sister once said that I was like the energizer rabbit, I just keep going and going. I laughed when she said it. But then, one night started with my sister, Chaparra, Joey and myself. The party was on and everyone was prancing all over the floor (some prance a little better than others, though). My sister was the first to leave the dance club so I went to sit by Chaparra and Joey. While I was out on the dance floor, Chaparra signaled to me that they were leaving. I was out there boogying down when my feet began to kill me. Suddenly I realized I had to get the heck out of there. Drenched from all the dancing (not to mention no air in the club), I hobbled out of the club alone. Limping back to my car, which was parked up a hill, I realized that I had been the last of our group to leave that night.
Immediately, THEY SHOOT HORSES DON'T THEY, popped into my head. Here I was, after having pranced and been pranced like a horse, limping and in pain, I was finally giving up. Well, you know the old saying, "They shoot horses to put them out of their misery." The perfect image for a limpin' filly to have as she heads back to the car. So what, who cares if my ringtone chimes, "I'm coming up so you better get this party started. Get this party started on a Saturday night."
Anyway, the movie, THEY SHOOT HORSES DON'T THEY, is about a marathon that goes on for days and days. People dance while they're sleeping. Dance partners drag their partners around the dance floor to keep from being kicked out of the marathon. I have to admit, I've been dragged around the dance floor myself, though not willingly. One time I was out on the dance floor and someone stepped on the toe of my boot as my partner, unaware,smiled at me and pranced me in the opposite direction. I should say dragged me because I don't think it's possible to prance with just one foot. Again, you can see why they shoot horses. That was in San Jose. Come to think of it, there've been times when we've gone down to San Jose for a concert. Drove back to San Francisco and realized we still had time to get a couple of hours in at the End of the Line.
All I have to say is, I don't care if they shoot horses, I'm gonna keep up the prancing 'til I too drop. I'll think of being put out of my misery later! For the time being, "Have a good time! Have a good time!"

Pachangas

Well as we gear up for next weeks big pachanga for la raza anniversary celebration, it brings back memories of the past anniversary pachangas. Now last year, the radio station made a big mistake in celebrating their anniversary with a pachanga in San Jose. Cause I'll tell ya right now, they don't party like the boys in the city! You've heard the saying, "How you gonna keep them down on the farm after they've seen Pari?" Well the same applies here. The boys in San Jose, as of yet, haven't made it to Pari. Or as we say here in the city, "How you gonna keep them down on the ranch after they've seen San Francisco!
Well, we all know that History didn’t really happen the way that it’s written in the books. Having said that, the following historical event should be taken with a grain of salt. To put it bluntly, “Don’t nobody remember nothing,” about the last pachanga here in the city.
It all started, innocently enough, when we pulled into the parking lot of the Cow Palace to go to the 2nd anniversary celebration of a local Mexican radio station, just to enjoy the company of other Mexicans and, of course, our music. Well, immediately, we began that enjoyment. We pulled out our bottles of champagne and cans of beer, while the car next to us drank tequila from the bottle. “Cheers, salud!”
Well, they were pulling in by the truck loads, our brethren Mexicans, that is. And, oh my god, looking good, REAL good. We downed, I mean sipped, our champagne and prepared to enter heaven. Before we got out of the car, our neighbors offered us shots of tequila. So we had a few shots, just to be neighborly. “OK, let’s go.” I grabbed my hat from the trunk and we made the walk to the entrance. And what a nice walk it was.
Now, the Cow Palace is a huge building, which was originally used for rodeos. It still is, but it’s also great for Mexican get togethers. It’s got a huge dance floor/arena and seats encircling it if you choose to watch the pretty scene from afar. Well, that’s not what we do. We don’t hide in corners waiting to be rescued. We go out there and participate.
And participate we did, immediately.
My sister and I got asked to dance as soon as we entered. And Joey and Chaparra were dancing too, I guess. Well, from here on out, things get a little hazy. Well, let’s just say it like it was, we were all so drunk out of our minds, that the best we can do is patch a few memories together, however accurate or inaccurate, to come up with a version of the truth!
So, somehow or other, we all got separated soon after entering. Nobody’s sure how, but, Chaparra found me in the bar (I think I was translating for the bartenders and their clients, you know tequila, corona,etc.) when she dumped Joey. Nobody found my sister, but my sister found Joey. As I said, things are a little fuzzy.
Chaparra and I had a great time. I think we left the bar to go to the bathrooms, good idea! Then we came back down and had hot dogs, good idea! Then we went back up to the bathrooms, good idea! Somehow or other we had time to re-enter the dance arena where, low and behold, we spotted Joey, dancing with another woman! “Come on!” said Chaparra. I followed her over to him thinking, “Oh my god! He is dancing with someone else. And a slow dance too!” Chaparra marched right up to him and tapped him on the shoulder. Joey turned and looked at her. “Oops, sorry, wrong person,” said Chaparra. It wasn’t Joey, but it sure looked like him. “Well, what do you expect in a dark room full of Mexicans,” said my sister, “someone’s bound to look like him.”
Chaparra and I quickly ran away (run Forrest, run).
In the meantime, the real Joey was walking around with my sister looking for us. That must have been when Chaparra and I decided to go up to the stage, good idea! We finally made our way in the dark, up towards the stage. When we got there we thought, “ So what do we do now?” Make our way back, of course.
My sister finally realized she was lost when she lost Joey too. Having had the wisdom and foresight (after 2 bottles of champagne and who knows how many shots of tequila) to leave her cell phone in the trunk of the car, and Chaparra wasn’t answering when Joey called and if he’d called me, I wouldn’t have felt my phone vibrate anyway, my sister proceeded to do the only logical thing she could do. Knowing she was a little tipsy, she decided, “I’m gonna leave before I fall down.” Which actually was a good idea, since it was too dark for anyone to see her on the floor.
So, she went up to someone whom she knew spoke English, a cop. She gave him her story about being lost with no cell phone. He sympathetically offered the use of his, but she realized she didn’t know anyone’s phone number! But, to her credit, she remembered she knew her daughter’s number and called her to call me with the text message, “My mom’s taking a cab.” So ends my sister’s night.
As the story goes, Chaparra and I were getting ready to leave when I got a phone call and Chaparra spotted Joey, still wearing my hat that he had “rented” from me. Chaparra quickly ran over to him snatched the hat off his head and her keys and she started to head towards the exit asking, “Who’s on the phone?” Which only goes to show, no matter how angry and/or boracha one might be, you always want to know who’s calling your friend late at night.
Needless to say, Joey followed us out. But, Chaparra had it all planned out, “Take a left here and a right up there. We’re dropping Joey off first.” “OK, then," I said. So we zipped up to Joey’s house, driving off as he closed the car door. Then zipped around the corner dropping off Chaparra. And back around down Joey’s street (the only way out). Low and behold, Joey saw me zip by and knew Chaparra was lying when she talked to him later saying we were out eating. I guess she was still mad at him for looking like the guy that was dancing with that woman.
Anyway, it was a wonderful night in Mexican heaven, tequila shots, hats, boots and music. And that’s the End. That is, until next weekend!

Horses

Or maybe it has nothing to so with being a trophy vieja or a trophy chica. Maybe it has to do with being a trophy "caballo". Last night, in the Wild, Wild West, we went a little further East, El Toro, where, by the way, I was given a wristband to show the bartenders and meseras that I was old enough to drink! Security didn't ask for I.D. though. I guess he just guessed that I was old enough to drink. Anyway, I was accompanied by a handsome trophy, ooooppps again, I mean cowboy.
He was all prettied up in his suit, boots, and Durango ornament strategically placed on his strategically placed hat which is tipped low in the front and slightly to the side. You know, a kind of cocky (no pun intended) look. So in we strutted to the heavy rhythms of the band, both of us wearing our drinking wristbands. And although I said I wasn't going to drink (cause I'd had a margarita in the car, ssshhh), non-the-less, we were both prepared when the mesera took our orders. "Clamato preparado and a bottled water," I said coyly. Well, eventually that changed and I had a couple of Coronas and even went out to the car to sip a few shots of patron from my flask. My pants had those faux pockets in the back and my boots were too tight and they frisk the guys, so we couldn't take the flask in. Oh Well.
He being from the part of the Wild, Wild West called Durango, of course when the cymbals started clanking and the horns started tooting, he was ready to go out and do a little "pasito duranguense".
He took my reigns, I mean my hand and lead me out to the dance floor passing in front of the stage where the other cowpokes pose as if hanging on a fence rail, twirled me a few times, pulled me in, and quickly pranced me across the floor. All of a sudden I had a vision! I had seen el Chappo de Sinaloa do his songs while riding around on horses-show horses that is. He'd run them, then stop them on a dime. Then he'd prance them sideways, backwards and front again, with beautiful flowing hair-the horse that is. So there I was, the show horse being pranced around so this cowboy could show the rest of the cowboys what he could do on the dance floor.
Well if that's the case, I'm gonna demand training and grooming, not to mention room and board! And I want my hair combed daily with my own personal groomer to do me up before I go out on display. You might think that's a lot, but I'm not asking for anything more than the other horses. If you want a trophy horse you gotta put some investment in her. I'm not gonna work that hard on the dance floor for just a bale of hay.
But I can't complain. He took pretty good care of me, his trophy horse. When I got sweaty he'd pat me down and fix my hair. And when I was thirsty, he'd get me a drink. He'd even make sure that I looked okay on the dance floor by pulling my blouse down so as not to let my undergarments be revealed. Maybe next week I'll even get some oats!

Names

People in the Wild, Wild West, as you can imagine, have unusual names. They're not their given names of course, but rather the names that we've given them. You've already been introduced to a few: Chaparra, el Jefe, PYT, OMG, Poor Vieja, etc. But in reality, there are many, many more.
For example, last night in the Wild, Wild West I saw Mr.& Mrs. Domestic, as in Domestic Violence (no further explanation needed). There was also Mr.& Mrs. Rhythmless (a match made in heaven and right in front of our eyes too.)
There was Monica Lewinsky. She earned her name by being too much of everything, like the original Monica Lewinsky: too much hair, too much make-up, too much body, too much, or should I say too little, clothes. Imagine her parading around the dance floor bigger than almost everyone in the place. One night she even strolled in with a fur stole.
Mr.&Mrs Prissy are permanent fixtures at The End of The Line, when one or the other of them hasn't been prohibited from entering (usually cause they've had a fight). There's the mouse because she always stands in a dark corner, but gets asked to dance non-the-less.
There used to be the Vampire who earned his name by showing up all of a sudden around midnight. Spooky! Then he might lick your shoulder while dancing with you. Who knows, maybe he'll mysteriously re-appear one night about midnight!
Pittsburgh who got his name because he'd drive all the way in from Pittsburg (California that i) just to dance at The End of The Line!
There was also the Skank, the Whore, The Cat and the Little Cat (the Cat's younger and shorter brother). And let us not forget Mother Mary whose been going to the End of the Line (and sitting in the same seat) for more that 10 years.
"Doesn't anybody around here have a real name?" asked Chaparra one night. But why would they have real names, when the End of the Line isn't even a real place!

Ranches

One night Chaparra, my sister and I arrived at the End of the Line early to find a prime parking space from which to sit and drink (don't tell anyone) while we watched to see who went in and how many were wearing hats. Actually, we always went early, at the crack of dawn, as Chaparra says. Sometimes it was still light out when we parked. We'd have to be careful when we raised our champagne glasses to toast some fine cowboy walking into the End of the Line. Lots of cop cars cruise the Mission. One night, as we sipped champagne, listening to the Mexican radio station, we started talking about dancing. "You know," I said,"we're just like the animals on the ranch when we're out there being maneuvered and shown off on the dancefloor. "Yeah," I continue,"You have your cows, your pigs and your horses being trotted across the floor under the control of the rooster (Chaparra's man came back from his ranch in Mexico sporting a rooster-like haircut, a tale hanging over his forehead). "What the hell!" we shouted, "how did this happen to us?" "We're city girls." "What are we doing in there being pranced across the floor (like the side trott), dancing to "La Vaca" (the cow) while listening to gritos (shouts) that sound like they're calling in the pigs from the hills."
Well, we must let that happen to us because these cowoys from the Wild, Wild West are so good looking. Then we started talking about these guys. "Who had the best teeth of all the guys you've dated?" asked my sister. MMMMmmmm, we all offered our conclusions. "What about the best nose?? And on and on. It was fun. Then my sister offered, "Well, although I've never dated him, John Travolta is my best over all man." "Oh yeah! Oh yeah!" Chaparra and I agreed. And he can dance too! Didn't you see him in Urban Cowboy-hat, boots, bulls, trucks, dancing, everything.
Then the car went quiet. My sister said, "Hey, everyone got quiet all of a sudden."
"Well, you went and mentioned John Travolta. What's left to say." We all nodded then went in to get pranced across the dancefloor like Sissy Spacek. We had a good time!

Trophies

There are all kinds of trophies. Trophies exist for winning all kinds of things. And what exactly is a trophy? A trophy is anything taken in competition, a prize. Something taken in victory, valor or by skill. Such as, a trophy wife. As you can imagine, in the Wild, Wild West there must be lots of trophies up for grabs. Who can drink the most, who can dance the best, who can wear the biggest belt buckle, who can carry (and maybe toss in the air)a woman across the dance floor best etc. But have you ever heard of a "trophy vieja?" Well, I have a friend, poor vieja, who has come to the conclusion that she is a trophy vieja.
One day poor vieja noticed that many of her male acquaintances had a common theme. They were like male peacocks who arrogantly strutted around with their feathers all aglow. They had names like "El Jefe," (the boss), "PYT," (pretty young thing), and "OMG," (Oh My God). And those are just a few of the many (although she's not bragging). "El Jefe" was a good dresser, good dancer, and fun to be with. But alas, as his name hints, he walked around like he was "the boss." Then "PYT" again was a good dancer, dresser and fun to be with. But alas, out on the dance floor he put on a big show that showed off his virility. "OMG" probably dressed the best, was fun to be with, and put on a show on the dance floor that rivaled "PYT's"!
Well, poor vieja began to wonder, and worry a little bit too, about why she attracted these pretty peacocks. Was there something wrong with her? Did she strut like a female peacock? Did she put on a show on the dance floor? Although she was considering wearing a big belt buckle, she hadn't as of yet. So, what was it that led her to believe that she was a trophy vieja? Well, these peacocks had certainly by definition, used their "skills" in "competition" for some kind of trophy. They and their big belt buckles, hats of various sizes and shapes (there's the large rim, the felt, the straw, the taco-which folds up on the sides like a taco, black, white, etc. adorned with various hatbands, signatures, scorpions, and even jewelry that glitters with the name of their home state in Mexico!) and fine clothing strutted around showing off their feathers. All they needed was their "trophy vieja" to make their picture complete. You ask why a trophy "vieja" instead of a trophy "chica?" Well think about it. What more can a man, who wants to show off his prize, have than a mature woman. A chica's just a girl. But a woman, now there's something to be proud of. He can show that he's "a real man."
Well, for the life of her, poor vieja could not figure out why she was the one, the one to be their trophy vieja. She stayed up nights, when she wasn't with one of the peacocks, trying to analyze herself. But she couldn't find any answers. She concluded that she'd just have to accept her fate and spend her days as the trophy vieja to virile, young trophies. OOOOooopps!!!!
I mean cowboys. I guess she's just good at what she does with her "skills" out on the dance floor! Maybe that's why she uses "Hotel California" (she's got a lot of pretty, pretty boys she calls "friends") as her ringtone for when these prize peacocks call. She philosophically sighs, poor vieja, as she reads the refrigerator magnet that her friend gave her which says, "Waiting for the right guy, meanwhile having a great time with the wrong ones!"

Fairytale

Once upon a time, in a far off land called the Wild, Wild West, lived a young girl named Chaparra. Chaparra and her Girlfriend loved to go out dancing at the End of the Line. One night Chaparra’s Girlfriend met a young man named el Jefe. Chaparra’s Girlfriend tried to get rid of el Jefe because he was too young. But, alas, el Jefe would not leave, not peacefully, anyway.
Soon thereafter, el Jefe introduced Chaparra to an acquaintance of his, Joey. Joey was a few years older than el Jefe. Chaparra’s Girlfriend was envious of this. She thought, “How lucky Chaparra is to have an older man.” So Chaparra and her Girlfriend continued to go to the End of the Line and meet their men there-the Girlfriend’s young man and Chaparra’s older man.
This went on for a while until one night, after having free fish soup at The End of the Line (where sometimes the eye of the fish is staring at you), Chaparra and her girlfriend wanted to go dancing at another place, el Toro, also located in the Wild, Wild West, but a little further east and off of a different bus line.
El Toro, being located a little further east, was a little more civilized and they asked to see I.D.s before allowing the party to enter. The women were not requested to produce I.D.s, but the men were. The men didn’t care for that, but they couldn’t drink without showing their I.D.s.
Upon showing his I.D., the guard said to Joey, “You’re just a baby.” This statement worried Chaparra a little. But Joey played it off. However, Chaparra’s Girlfriend felt exposed now that the guard had seen the guy’s ages. She imagined the guard saying, “How nice of you boys to bring your grandmothers out.” But she quickly put that out of her mind.
It turns out that inside El Toro there were only five people: the four of them and Chaparra’s ex-boyfriend. Chaparra leaned across the table to her girlfriend and said, “I think Christ (the names have been changed to protect the innocent) is here.” Chaparra’s Girlfriend looked up and saw Christ walking towards their table. “Oh my god,” thought Chaparra’s Girlfriend, “There’s gonna be a showdown in the wild, wild west.” But, Chaparra’s ex-boyfriend, Christ, merely tipped his hat as he passed the table on the way to the men’s room. But he did have an angry walk.
After lots of great dancing the party left. Chaparra’s phone was ringing a lot that night. But, she ignored Christ.
One night Chaparra called her Girlfriend. Chaparra was breathing hard and talking in a whisper. She said, “ Oh my god! Joey came over and told me his back was sensitive because he just got a new tattoo. When he took off his shirt, he had his birth date tattooed across his back, 1983!” Poor Chaparra. But Chaparra’s Girlfriend was no longer envious of Chaparra and her “older” man. She told Chaparra, “If the police ever drive up and ask for I.D.s just tell them that the boys told us they were 41 and 42 and we believed them.” The End

The Vampire

In he swaggered, at The End of the Line. Chaparra nudged me saying, "Look at this one." I leaned back from my bar stool to gaze down bathroom row towards the front door. All I could see was the top of his black cowboy hat. He was looking downward. Then he lifted his head and all I saw were his eyes looking at my eyes looking at him. My mind said, "Oh my god, here comes trouble," as I tried to inconspicuously disappear back into bathroom row. Definitely, he was from the Wild, Wild West. If it had been legal, he'd a been wearing a holster on each side of his hips (which, by the way, moved very well on the dance floor). And just as I had suspected, trouble came walking my way as soon as the band chose a song from their large repertoire (which undoubtedly is the reason we wait about 5 minutes between songs!?!?). How could I refuse when he, later to be called "The Vampire," held out his hand, asking me to dance. Chaparra and I smiled at each other as I walked out to the dance floor with the Vampire.
The Vampire would show up every now and then around midnight. And just like a vampire, there was some unidentifiable reason that he would make your heart jump. Just his presence gave the place excitement. He'd lure the women out to the dance floor with his eyes, which were dark, dark black, not having to say a word. Maybe both the cowboy and the vampire hold a romantic image in our psyches. Think about it, and not just with your mind. Don't both the cowboy and vampire elicit something from the body? Maybe it's their proximity to death. The vampire's proximity is obvious. Entrancing their prey in a very titillating way 'til, of course, the kill. Well, the cowboy with his gun-slinging image, saving a damsel in distress, again with a kill in the end. In a way they both evoke romantic images of the night, enveloped in a haze which brings about a surrender. Wow! How can one possibly resist?
And resist, I didn't. Many a night we waltzed, polkaed, and just plain kicked up our heels around "The End of the Line." He'd nibble at my neck while taking the lead on the dance floor. Then he'd twirl his cowboy hat in the air and grita. Your heart would be pumping and you'd feel full of life! Maybe that's what the vampires do. They get your blood rushing, making you helpless, before they move in for the kill! HHHhhhmmm! No wonder we named him "The Vampire"

ManWoman

Then there was ManWoman. ManWoman? No, she/he is not a transvesite or transexual. She is a genuine ManWoman. What makes her a ManWoman? Where shall we start? Could it be her figure, or should we call it her build? Well, it kind of grows or fills-out as it moves upward from the ankles. The legs are solid, as can be witnessed from her mini-faldas. Then her waist expands with an ample beer belly. From there the shoulders are broad and the breasts are small as revealed by her halter tops. Then, the hair is curly and short-short. I think she even has her neck shaved. Her face is painted, being topped off with bright red lipstick on her twisted mouth. Is her mouth naturally twisted or twisted from alcohol? Who knows! But twisted it always is. Anyway, ManWoman's man, yes she actually has a steady man, which is more than some of us can say, is smaller and older, and he also is usually twisted. In no way can his walk match her strut. When ManWoman enters The End of the Line, with or without her man ('cause we think she sometimes sneaks out alone after he's passed out at home) everyone knows, because she struts straight down bathroom row smiling at all the men. Now, walking down bathroom row is what we imagine walking down death row might be. Yes, you got it. Hands jutting out from behind the bars, I mean barstools; a narrow plank-like walkway; and the women being deathly afraid of being groped by the inmates, I mean clientele , as most of us have been.
One night ManWoman arrived, belly hangin' out, with her man in tow, because, god knows, she's in charge of him! They sat at the bar along side myself, my sister and Chaparra. They were having a lovely time that night, although there are nights when it's not quite so lovely between them-she points her finger in his face, shouting (with her twisted, red mouth)about him flirting. All of it in her imagination because, first of all, no one's gonna flirt with the old man and secondly who's stupid enough to flirt with ManWoman's man. Well, they came back from the dance floor and ManWoman started yelling at some little, drunk guy standing in bathroom row. He moved on. Out ManWoman and her man went to dance. The little drunk guy returned and sat on her stool. I whispered over to my sister and Chaparra, who weren't paying any attention to me, that there was going to be a fight. When ManWoman returned and saw the little drunk one there she went into a rage! The little drunk man grabbed her man like a hostage, holding him in front as protection from ManWoman. I quickly fled. ManWoman picked up a bottle from the bar, pulled her man out of the way, and went straight for the little drunk one. Fortunately for the little drunk one, security arrived to save him. He was thrown out, but ManWoman and her man were allowed to stay. I'm not exactly sure how the judge and jury work in the Wild, Wild West, but I suppose you could consider the judgment to be fair, after all, ManWoman and her man were clearly the one's spening their money there. Maybe the little drunk one was stealing beers. But it was quite entertaining, especially for a night with no cover charge!

Rats

As the story goes, it was rats (and ungrateful clientele) that brought the infamous "Beginning of the Line" (or la Rondalla) to it's knees. We call it the "Beginning of the Line" because that's the part of the Wild, Wild West where we'd start off our night. And what a start off too!
But, getting back to the rat. As urban Mexican-myth would have it, a rat fell through the ceiling, landing on a dinner plate of some guests. The owner told the waitress to give them half off their bill. I guess the guests were upset and filed a complaint. Obviously, they hadn't had enough margaritas. Because god knows, after two, anything can happen and it will appear to be normal to you. We had to enforce a limit amongst ourselves, Chaparra, my sister and I. That limit was a 2 drink, not minimum but, maximum. When we'd walk in the bartender would make our specials: margaritas on the rocks with herradura and grand marnier. I remember the time when the wrong bartender made the drinks. The waitress brought them to the table and we asked where our grand marnier was. She said, "Oh," and brought the bottle to the table so we could pour it in ourselves. We had a great time that night.
Chaparra was lovin' the music and the total atmosphere when something dropped from somewhere in the ornately decorated ceiling. It was a roach. Chaparra screamed, brushed it off and went on swaying to the music. If the diners who reported and closed down la Rondalla, or the "Beginning of the Line" had had at least the proper number of margaritas, they'd a taken it all in stride. Just as life should be taken.

Roaches

Next to rats and mice, cockroaches are my least favorite things in the world! Yes, roaches can be found at The End of the Line. Maybe that's why it's kept dark, with the only lights being black lights (to make the wall murals glow), Christmas lights (to make it seem like a party?), and behind the bar lights (to highlight the bartendresses assets?). Anyway, one time Chaparra and I were sitting at the bar quite comfortably after having shuffled the stools around to find ones that were not too high (like they need tall stools for their clientele, most of whom don't pass the height requirements to get on the rides at Six Flags!:)
Deciding on what to drink was our next chore because mixed drinks are outrageously priced, weak, but are made up to look exotic, probably to fool you, just like the bartendresses, whose genders can be questionable. Beer is your best bet. And if your taste runs for the exotic, painted, low-cut blouse wearing, tight jeans (without back pockets)wearing women (?), you can get quite a show as they bend over to get the beer out of the cooler. You've heard the expression, "belly-up to the bar"? Well, they "booby-up" to the bar to open the bottle of beer. And for this, they get tipped! The heftier the backside and/or topside, the heftier the tip. But, that also depends on the degree or drunkeness of the clientele.
Chaparra and I have tried many ways to drink beer, because neither of us like beer! But it's the cheapest drink and you know it hasn't been watered down as many of the liquors are suspected of being. We've had what we call a beer "cocktail" where you pour it into a glass with ice and lime juice. Not bad, and it lasts long. Then there's the bottle of beer with a clamato back . Now, the clamato juice will cost you because it's served "preparado" which means they prepare it (pepper, salt, tabasco) so, for some reason, they charge you like it's a mixed drink although there's no alcohol. But, it makes drinking the beer easier and fools your stomach into thinking you've eaten. So afterward, you don't go out for tacos.
But anyway, there we were on our hand-picked stools, drinking our beer cocktails when we were joined by a large roach. Since our boobs too, are at bar height, they must make bars with that in mind, you can imagine how we felt when the large roach, which grew larger in size at it came our way, started zig-zagging all over the bar, then darted under the bar-ledge! Obviously confused, or intoxicated, it popped back up on top of the bar. The well experienced bartendress (if it is a woman) smacked it and cleaned it off the bar. Yeah, it put a little damper on the night. So what else is new?
After a beer or two, I had to make my way down "bathroom row" (to be explained at a later date) to use the "ladies" room. The "ladies" room is a small boxlike room with a mirror (of course, to fix eye-liner, lipstick, etc. although no one looks any better coming out than when they went in!); with a sign on it that says "please do not throw toilet paper into the toilet, put it in the garbage can"; a broken down sink under which is kept a broken toilet seat and extra toilet paper, if there is any. There's also a garbage can in the corner which is frequently used as a toilet when the stall is occupied. The stall has a toilet that sometimes has a toilet seat, always has an overflowing garbage can with used toilet paper and may or may not have a roll of toilet paper in there. And the floor is definitely wet so you have to roll your pants legs up. I was so happy when I went into the "ladies" room because it was empty. I guess everyone was boogying out on the dance floor. Noticing there was no toilet paper in the stall, and knowing where the secret stash is kept, I took a fresh roll in with me. I unwrapped it and, to my horror, a roach jumped out. Screaming, I threw the roll into the air. It fell, into the toilet, naturally. And I scrambled for the door, as if the roach was chasing me! But who knows, it could have been chasing me. After all, it was Mexican and could have been a male roach! And Mexican, male roaches are quite persistent!!!

The End of the Line

The End of the Line is a virtual entertainment center. Not only do you get a live band whose repertoire is so large that they literally take more time between songs than they actually do playing music. I guess they're deciding on what song to play next and do it in a democratic way where all three musicians have a turn to present their view on what should be played next, debate it, then vote. But, the group also has a unique physical presentation. Hair is one of their trademarks, along with t-shirts tucked into jeans and belted pants that are hitched up to somewhere between the bottom of the breast bone and the natural waist. But, getting back to the hair. A woman would be proud of it's length. Sometimes it's in a pony tail, which is okay. But sometimes, it's actually parted down the middle and combed straight down the sides of their faces. Although the hair is combed straight, it's not straight hair. So it actually curls down the sides of their faces. Maybe it's to hide their faces, which is probably a good idea.
After about 40 minutes, half of which has been spent in discussion of what to play, the band will take a break and put on music which has to be played on an 8 track. Remember them? They lost the fight way back when to cassettes. But, if you're fortunate enough to be on the dance floor, you might actually be able to dance to "Jail House Rock" in Spanish. The crowd goes wild for this as everyone hits the dance floor to twist!
A couple of times the dance floor had to be evacuated. One time a putrid smell permeated the place. It's not unusual for people to pass gas when they're twisting, but this smell was horrid. Everyone ran out into the street gasping for air as someone secretly laughed at having thrown a stink bomb. Then another time a guest singer was up on stage. Everyone was boogying down when people started coughing. Before you knew it, everyone was choking and heading for the door again. The whole place emptied out due to the pepper spray (again administered anonymously) except for the guest singer. What was he on that he was able to sing right through it?
Thus you have it, another vignette from the End of the Line.

The Wild, Wild West

"The Wild, Wild West" refers to the Mexican dance scene in San Francisco. As the vignettes (a small, graceful literary sketch) unfold, you will understand how the dance scene got it's name. I started out as a salsa dance snob, as many salsa dancers are, even if they learned to dance salsa from lessons and can't keep a beat. But, being Mexican-American, I finally found my way back to the place of my ancestors, The Wild, Wild West, which is located in the Mission District of San Francisco of course. I have to give my sister her props, though, for dragging me off to her dance place, which later became my weekend hang-out. At first I'd go in on a weekend night and hang out facing the bar with my back to the dance floor, and the men. My sister, and our friend, Chaparra (Spanish for short. And by the way, Chaparra's taller than both my sister and me.) would say to me, "You're never gonna meet anyone with your back to them." At that time, I didn't care. I could see the men through the mirror behind the bar, and I didn't see anything interesting. Until, one day, as I was trying to get to the bar through the crowd, I spotted him. He later was given the name Number 1, for obvious reasons. There he was tall, black eyes, black hair, mustache, cowboy hat, cowboy boots and a black leather jacket. Hay dios! Our eyes riveted together, both struck by a bolt of lightening, I was hooked. Here I was in the Wild, Wild West at a dance place that my sister called "The End of the Line." That's not it's given name. It earned that name by being the last place you'd go to at the end of the night, after a few drinks, because it was on the way home and nothing else exciting had happened that night. Plus it's as far as many Mexican's will go on "the Mule," the bus that runs through the Mission District (or the 14 Mission bus). But, the End of the Line offered us the definite possibility of dancing. Men in the Wild, Wild West still ask women to dance by offering them their hand. They never take "no" for an answer. And, they will frequently offer you a drink. So, as you can see, when all else fails during your night on the town, the End of the Line is a good place at which to end up.