Down in the West Texas town of El Paso, Marty Robbins is eating his g.d. heart out
Wow, I wish I had a Mariachi band so I could do my own tribute to one of the freakiest border towns on the planet ever. El Paso is halfway between here and L.A., and totally feels like Baghdad or Amman. And thanks to the military presence and a full weekend of quaffing Bombay Sapphire & tonics and Albert's Sangria, it might as well have been. A couple of times Wayne even had to remind me that we were still in Texas, and not New Mexico. At any rate, I couldn't have asked for a better lost weekend than this one. Lost weekends are your friend. Lost weekends reuniting with cherished friends are even better. Trust.
It's no secret that being in Wayne's presence always fills me with joy - the kind that makes me want to make honking noises and clap giddily like a retarded circus seal. But after seeing Albert again for the first time in 16 years, I was delighted to discover that he still rules supreme on so many levels - not only his warmth, his immense musical talent and mastery of Khoresht-e Bademjan (aka Persian Paradise, only with chicken), but he's also the consummate tour guide. He grew up in El Paso and gave me the historical lowdown on how the city's economy has basically been dependent on the following: the railroad, prostitution, and the military. I'm hard pressed to find a more perfect natural order of business, especially after finding out about H. Gordon Frost's book, Gentlemen's Club: The Story of Prostitution in El Paso. There are also tons of Lebanese and Syrians, most of whom own all of downtown and have severely Anglicized their names. Sorry, but you can't tell me Dibbs wasn't formerly Dieb!
While we didn't make it to Rocketbuster (too broke) or to any Tex-Mex dives of note (too busy planning our other lavish meals), we did make the Trans Mountain Highway trek, and took a spin through downtown and along the road separating El Paso and Juarez. As someone who straddles the fence - no pun intended - on immigration issues, it's all too easy to see why the influx north continues without abatement. Maybe it's the ghosts of all those murdered girls, or the simple fact that Juarez - from a glance - just screams 'creepy shithole.' I'd probably be paying some coyote an entire year's savings to get my desperate ass over the border, too.
It's no secret that being in Wayne's presence always fills me with joy - the kind that makes me want to make honking noises and clap giddily like a retarded circus seal. But after seeing Albert again for the first time in 16 years, I was delighted to discover that he still rules supreme on so many levels - not only his warmth, his immense musical talent and mastery of Khoresht-e Bademjan (aka Persian Paradise, only with chicken), but he's also the consummate tour guide. He grew up in El Paso and gave me the historical lowdown on how the city's economy has basically been dependent on the following: the railroad, prostitution, and the military. I'm hard pressed to find a more perfect natural order of business, especially after finding out about H. Gordon Frost's book, Gentlemen's Club: The Story of Prostitution in El Paso. There are also tons of Lebanese and Syrians, most of whom own all of downtown and have severely Anglicized their names. Sorry, but you can't tell me Dibbs wasn't formerly Dieb!
While we didn't make it to Rocketbuster (too broke) or to any Tex-Mex dives of note (too busy planning our other lavish meals), we did make the Trans Mountain Highway trek, and took a spin through downtown and along the road separating El Paso and Juarez. As someone who straddles the fence - no pun intended - on immigration issues, it's all too easy to see why the influx north continues without abatement. Maybe it's the ghosts of all those murdered girls, or the simple fact that Juarez - from a glance - just screams 'creepy shithole.' I'd probably be paying some coyote an entire year's savings to get my desperate ass over the border, too.
posted by No, You Can't Watch at 11:55 PM
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home