The static electricity is so intense here that I dread shutting the car door and touching my ipod. The cat has it particularly bad. She's white and incredibly fluffy (which causes me to hate her every time I want to wear a black suit jacket). She has been known to try and lick the metal legs of the chair. There's an audible pop. At night, on the wool blanket, in the dark, she comes to you and demand to be pet. You can see the electricity when you run your hand down her back or rub her ear. It's pretty; like stirring up phosphorescence in the Gulf.
Filed under: Alcohol, Characters, New Mexico, People Watching, Skinning, Uncategorized
I forgot to write about a particularly frightening man at the Red Elvises show.
We were eating, talking, and generally minding our own business before the show. Beki got up to get a drink and overheard a conversation between a couple guys near the door. They were big, middle aged guys. One said, “You ever skin a black bear? They are the oiliest mother fuckers.” Another answered, “I know, and once get the skin off they look like a human. Creepy.” The third returned, “And if you nick the gut they smell somethin' awful.” Beki got her beers and promptly returned.
Somehow I missed her tell this story when she returned, so my first introduction to our hero was when I noticed the hunting knife on his belt. He was leaning against a wooden post, arms crossed. He was about 6'4'' and 230. He had a well groomed beard and mustache, a flannel shirt, nice fitting jeans, and cowboy boots. The look was completed by a cowboy hat and the knife. Everyone was a little scared.
Once the show started (it was late because their van broke down (Beki's worst fear is of breaking down in the middle of New Mexico)) we headed to the dance floor, which had previously only been occupied by couple in their mid-fifties wearing Hawaiian shirts. The man had on shiny, red wing-tips. The floor filled and the band stated. Somehow The Bear Skinner caught Dave's eyes and he spent several minutes in a peeking battle with our hero. Dave would try to get a good look at him, then The Skinner would slowly turn his head and catch Dave's gaze. I'm not sure how long this lasted.
The Bear Skinner was forgotten until the intermission (which the Elvises used to hawk their goods). A drunk Beki was trying to get a drunk Ben to talk to a hot hipster girl, when suddenly we saw The Skinner make bee line to the object of Beki's affection. He avoided the dancing duo and confidently introduced himself. We all held our breath. The conversation only lasted twenty seconds and we all wondered about the outcome. He headed for the bar and we were certain he was buying her a drink, but that never panned out. In retrospect it is clear that what we saw was our hero's incredibly dignity in the face of rejection.
I only caught glances of The Bear Skinner throughout the rest of night. One thing is certain, we were all afraid and in awe. My only question is: How do they know what a skinned person looks like?
Filed under: Alcohol, Concert, Dancing, Food, Music, New Mexico, Society, Soviet Defectors
Last night I went with Beki, Ben, Dave, and Leslie to see The Red Elvises. I hadn't seen the Ybor City staple in several years and was pretty stoked to see their giant red bass guitar and hear their Soviet surf-rock in all it's glory. They played at the Santa Fe Brewing Company, which has decent micro-brew, but pales in comparison to Sarasota Brewing Company. I had an extremely mediocre hamburger, which was especially disappointing because I so rarely eat meat these days. The venue was, like so many places in New Mexico, in the middle of nowhere; an oasis of light, wood, and cars.
The Elvises were as great as I remember. I'd have never thought a really loud whistle could add so much to a rock song, but the bassist used it to great effect (using his mouth, not a whistle like your middle school coach used). They had a really good keyboard/accordian player. She was short and Russian and wriggled around to great effect. The sax/flute/clarinet player was pretty good. He even played a lot of baritone sax, which I happen to love. The drummer was quite good as well. At one point all five of the band members played a drum solo that culminated in everyone leaving the stage to drink beer. It was just the drummer up there going off for five minutes. He's no less than six feet six with a huge wingspan. He moved from a funk breakdown to surf groove to a Don Cabellero freakout to his best Elvin Jones impression. It was pretty impressive.
The Elvises (which is really just the guitarist and bassist) are incredible showmen. They've taken the do-it-yourself way of conducting a music career and run with it. At the end of the show, after doing four encores without actually leaving, they announced that they were, “The Red Elvises; your favorite band!” It's amazing what two Soviet artistic defectors with a dream can do.
The crowd was a strange one. It ranged from high schoolers to middle-aged women in terrible jeans. One of these drunk forty-something crushed Beki's toe with her high-heeled black boots. The older men spent the evening trying to holler at young girls. I've often cringed at men coming on to women, but never has it been so upsetting. Everywhere I looked there were men leering at these women. I can't imagine what that must feel like. Whenever Chantal and I would ride our bikes to downtown Sarasota, she would marvel at how no one would honk at her when she was with a man. I thought that was telling, but seeing it in such full force last night took my understanding to a new level.
Today featured the best hamburger I've ever had and surrealist film. But I'll save that for tomorrow.
I miss a southern breakfast. I went to the LA Cafe this morning to check out their breakfast. At first glance the place looked OK. Bad curtains, fake flours, smooth jazz. I was suspicious because I was the only one there at 9:00 AM on a Sunday, but I thought maybe everyone was at church. Plus, Los Alamos is a small town, so I wasn't going to hold a lack of business against them. Then I saw the menu. Small. No steak and eggs. Only a three kinds of pancakes. A few omelets and the obligatory New Mexico breakfast barritto. I'll note that the best breakfast burritos on the face of the planet are found at a shack called Chile Works a few blocks away. Plus, at Chili Works, you can get your burrito for $4.60 and even buy some meth. Nothing at the LA Cafe was less than 8:00. That's right, with tip it cost me $11 for three floury pancakes and four strips of bacon. I didn't even want the bacon because I don't often eat meat anymore, but there were no grits or fruit on the menu. How can you have a breakfast joint without bacon?
This time of year in Florida I can go to Kissin' Cousins and get three big, fluffy, perfect pancakes, fresh squeezed orange juice, an egg, and thick, buttery grits for $7.00 with tip. The thing I miss the most is the pancake. I can make the kind of pancakes I ate this morning: floury, almost light but not quite, misshapen and entirely boring and disappointing. I gave up on making great pancakes after spending an entire morning and afternoon making every variation possible. I came to the conclusion that it's best left to professionals with huge, hot, seasoned griddles and forty year-old recipes. Kissin' Cousins delivered the finest pancakes in town. I miss them.
Needless to say, I'll never go back to LA Cafe.
