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!
Friday, December 19, 2008
Monday, December 8, 2008
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.
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.
Sunday, November 16, 2008
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!"
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!"
Sunday, November 9, 2008
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!
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!
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!
Saturday, October 25, 2008
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!
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!
Sunday, October 12, 2008
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!
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!
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