Honey Mustard or Cadillac Ranch?

Amarillo, TX to Grants, NM

Heading out of Amarillo toward Tucumcari after an early and surprisingly disappointing breakfast at a Waffle House (every option promised to take three years off your life—fried or buttered or fried-and-buttered), the only thing open I could find on the route before sun up, that resulted in a hot tip from the waitress about checking out the Floating Mesa by Stanley Marsh 3 of Cadillac Ranch fame. As I get rolling to make the obligatory Route 66 pilgrimage I come to realize the foggy conditions are going to ruin any effect the mesa would have so I decide to pass. A little disappointed I make a note in the back of my travel guide for the return drive.

As I drive out of town I think about classifying Amarillo. Do I like Amarillo? Did I enjoy my time there? Well I found directions into town frustrating, had a great time at the 806, had a boring breakfast at the Waffle House, scaled a ‘60s Cadillac for a shot of the ranch, and met some shit morning weather. How would one sort that out? Would you like that or not like that experience? And if I like it, does that make Amarillo good; or if I don’t like it, does that make Amarillo bad? I don’t even know why I’d bother to classify it. Amarillo just is.

Around 9:00AM I turn off in Adrian, TX, a town that bills itself as the midpoint of the journey halfway between Chicago and L.A. The MidPoint Café features a fantastic attention grabbing sign imploring visitors to look down at the building from the route and is festooned in Route 66 memorabilia. After taking a few minutes to photograph Cherry in front of the place I walk in, disappointed I’d had breakfast before leaving Amarillo because this is the kind of quiet breakfast spot I tend to appreciate. The place is famous (so to speak) for ugly crust pies and as the waitress about the name; she tells me the owner made the crust more dry than usual and they tended to be ugly, although she adds looking at the pies in the refrigeration case almost as if it just then occurred to her, they aren’t all that ugly any more. Would I like to try one? she asks. Now I generally don’t have a sweet tooth and tend not to eat out of guilt but somehow a slice of pecan with coffee seemed a perfect way to jumpstart the day’s drive. I ordered up and as chipper as you can imagine she split and returned with my order.

The sticky pie filling has a sharp and sweet quality that does not remind me of the kinds of pies my grandma used to make (or rather, buy). Good choice, I complement to myself. With a few more pictures my waitress reappears and I ask what people do around Adrian for fun (that’s becoming my stock conversation starter for obvious reasons) and once again I got the standard quip, “Get out of town.” Then she mentions she has family, there are theaters, a few bars in town. Regular life kinds of things. Not much different from Chicago I thought, although the assortment might be more limited.

After a brief poke in the gift shop I spend a few dollars on a mug marked “MidPoint Café” (I hate chachkis and such souvenirs but somehow coffee mugs find their way into my travel memorabilia collection). I’m thinking about my mood this morning. Moods can be fleeting and I’ve been up throughout the trip so maybe on the fifth day with clouds overhead. I’m feeling tired, restless, eager to show some kind of progress. Being halfway to nowhere in particular is kind of satisfying. Moods, being fleeting, come in and out as they see fit and its remarkable how we can linger in a mood, whether a boost or a funk, for a while…even identify with a mood. Think about it: I have the innate human capacity to be happy and sad, to be ecstatic and depressed, to be fearful and comfortable. Furthermore with a few contemplative techniques and a lot of practice I’ve been able to access my emotions and call upon different emotions as I choose; or experience hot emotions as they happen to inform my actions rather than be victim of my own passions. Not always, but often. With practice.

So what kind of person am I? A happy person? A serious person? An analytical person? An angry person? All of these, since I can adopt these ways of being (like any human being) at times. And none of these, since I can choose not to adopt these modes of being at other times. A happy person is in a state more than exhibiting a long-lasting a trait. Likewise for a depressed person. We all have our moments, and recognizing it doesn’t refute it. I know this doesn’t sit well those of us who identify as our emotions and who’ve privileged our worldview over the emotion-starved existence of others. But even if we don’t express it the same we feel it. Granted, clinical depression is much more severe than not being invited to your friend’s wedding and schizophrenia is deeper than response to the events of the world. But in the relatively healthy course of events we all paint our lives from the same emotional palette.

I’d like to think we’re all more than one-dimensional stereotypes who need to be classified to be dealt with. You’re welcome to think whatever you like about me, I don’t mind. Leaving the MidPoint Café I’m noticing a blasé mood pass over me. Feels like the weak onset of one of my bouts of depression or a prolonged apathy and I hope getting on the road shakes it off before it takes hold. I take the expressway to cover a little ground, I’m anxious and feel the need to move on quickly. Glenrio, TX has a segment of the route with a fantastic abandoned gas station across from an older abandoned gas station. A fellow near a camper at the stop is out walking his dog (white lap dog, I don’t know my breeds) and shouts “That a ’66?” You know the Mustang fans by their ability to call the year instead of just ask. Turns out his parents bought a straight six new in 1966 and he had it for years. Great mileage he says. Underpowered…couldn’t climb a hill to save its life but would save a lot of gas. Turns out that Gary—coming from Huntsville, AL to look for a little plot in Colorado for his camper—went all the way to a bare metal restore before the car was carted away with the other estate assets after his mother died. Shame, I thought, but better than the typical loss I’ve heard half a dozen times so far: “I lent it to my {brother/friend/neighbor} and he wrecked it.” Never a “she,” at least not so far. Gary and I get to comparing notes on carburetor mileage (his camper and Cherry are neck-and-neck) and he recalls the good old days where Route 66 was the only way across the country and his parents used to hang canvas bags off the front to keep the best from overheating. The car has unlocked Gary’s sense of nostalgia and we talk about how tough it was and how great it was at the same time. Things were different before. Better or worse? I’m not sure…just different.

The radiators for old passenger cars were not designed for cross-country trips; instead the whole machine was designed, balanced, tuned, and optimized for a few solid hours a day rather than the eight to ten that two weeks of a family vacation entailed. When you think of the car as a big eating, breathing animal rendered in metal and glass rather than plastic this makes sense. There are perfect analogs between the car and an animal. The car needs food (gas); the car has blood to keep it healthy (oil); the car sweats (coolant) and exerts self, suffering sunstroke (small radiator size and missing fan shroud); the car needs a routine physical (scheduled maintenance); the car excretes (exhaust); and the car gets sick (breakdowns). The older cars have pretty simple circulatory systems: fuel in, pump to the engine, burn it up, release exhaust (isn’t this basically the Krebs cycle?).

Gary asks how old I am. I tell him, and he says, “Boy, you can handle these long drives! I used to pull a 28 hour drive from Alabama to Colorado to go backpacking. My advice to you: don’t ever get old!” Sage advice. I don’t want to get old. Now, I don’t mind the prospect of aging, I’d like to mature gracefully, yet I’d like to stay young at heart. Whatever that means.

“Big Girls Don’t Cry” by Fergie comes in and on the radio with alarming frequency. Also “American Owned” is a prominent advertisement on a number of hotels. The East Indian run hotels I stayed at in Illinois and Missouri must be more of an issue than I realized and while I don’t feel invested either way I wonder if this is a selling point for whitebread middle American travelers. America used to be a nation of immigrants and if newcomers are willing to do what it takes the God is blessing them whether or not you like it.

While spinning past a country tune extolling the good feeling letting Jesus into your heart is, I hear what sounds like a confrontational Dr. Phil radio show and soon pick up on the game: Christian call-in therapy. The tone captures my attention: there’s something wickedly judgmental about the therapist (minister?); every question or concern is met not with acceptance or encouragement but a THUMP!! smack back explaining either hypocrisy (“Oh, it’s okay for you to cheat but not for her?!?”) and biblical trespass (“The Bible says that you shall…”). Of course pop Christian radio is still pop radio and the lesson-giver would do well to brush up on her chapter and verse—setting that aside it’s easy to see just how entrenched the idea of passing judgment is among people in this area. It came up dozens of times last night at the coffee lounge; it came up at the McDonalds; it came up with Brett and his family, his mother, and social work; it comes up at conversations I eavesdrop on at truck stops. It’s as if God weren’t capable of punishing the wicked thank you very much, that he needs an army of self-righteous hillbillies to purge the land of anything they regard, in their infinite compassion and scholarly wisdom, immoral. Not just that they don’t like it, that they have a personal revulsion; no, this judgment is all about calling out what constitutes and affront to God and what penance the offender must make. Or even simpler: remind them they’re going to hell. Problem burned.

Just across the New Mexico border I pull into a Love’s travel plaza and fill up. The whole place is unusually crowded…ahh, it’s Friday. This must be how the weekend warrior travel day starts. I really don’t like it. Feeling a bit high-strung to begin with I leave my credit card with the cashier because the pump payment isn’t available and when I’m done I go in to collect my card and receipt. When I get back to my car a huge Englishman with a handle bar moustache steps up to my car and with the queen’s twinge of sarcasm asks, “Would you be good enough to move your vehicle so others may use the pump?!?” I say, “Sure of course.” As I back out he damn near runs me down. Too close for comfort, I honk and flash a “stop” hand sign (but I’m feeling the “fuck-you you limey scrotum” sign from my chest to my finger tip). Now I’m really tense. At least with a full tank I don’t need to stop for a few hours. I turn on some more of that Bible belt relationship advice because Southern-fried condemnation of your neighbor is just the stress-buster the doctor ordered.

A few hours into New Mexico I notice the scenery has gradually changed. It didn’t change all of a sudden: it’s not like Texas has exclusive rights to quality cattle grazing and New Mexico secured all of nature’s high desert, but rather I hadn’t noticed the transition and suddenly it catches my attention. Shrubbery, hints of red earth, hills that jut rather than roll. It’s quite beautiful and quite nostalgic. Reminds me of trips as a kid when around the age of eight or nine I thought my dad was a cruel human being for taking us kids (well, me anyhow I didn’t give two fucks about my sisters) away from our television-oriented social lives. Appreciation, like so many things in life, seems often retrospective. The nostalgic wistfulness gives way to entire presence and before too long I find myself in Albuquerque, taking the historic route through twists and turns in a canyon, damn near rear-ending a motorbike going 20MPH that was barely road worthy, and come down the eastern grade of Central Avenue to gas up. As I fill the car and clean the bumper (another thing about old car design: flush rear gas tank fills make it really easy to drip gas onto the body at a fill up…think bladder control issues) an old guy walks by and remarks, “Knock it off! You know you have a pretty car, ain’t gotta baby it.” I get a good laugh and close the tank as he goes to catch up with the attendants who are in not-much-going-on small talk staring at my car. I go to get my receipt and see the old guy who adds, “That a ’65?” “’66, you can tell by the scoop emblems.” I add.

“Yeah, used to have a ’64. Neat car,” he says complementing me by complementing himself.
“Cool. Where is it now, do you know?” I ask.
“No, sold it to a buddy who promised to keep it. Promise he broke,” he says with a smile.

I notice a both arms and his neck have miscellaneous tattoos set deep in reddened leathery skin. Not colored tattoos like you’d find in a modern inking parlor. These were the old school, self-inflicted variety. Didn’t study them too much but asked where he was from; he tells me Chicago. “Really? Wow, I’m coming down the old route and I have to tell you I love this little piece of the country.” “Well I’m not sure how much you’d love it if you been here a while. I came in ’56 and been here since. Have family up in Chicago but I don’t make it back.” I get the feeling there’s more story than I’m hearing but before I can dig in the attendant calls the guy aside for whatever business he came to the station for. I wish him well and cruise along.

This episode, with the attendants jabbering about my car (or while looking on—who can know the topic) reminds me of how social life is littered with commentary about things that catch our attention. Whether it’s a drifter in a hot car, or a punk kid in an old hooptie (same person and car, different assessments) the chance to witness something and make a remark defines the social world. Of course it’s not very interesting to say “Say, there’s some dirt on the ground.” Or “People of reason may disagree.” There’s no drama, no tension, no personal investment. Remarks that pronounce judgment about things are much more interesting. Dramatic. Engaging. Right or wrong (of course if I say or think it, it must be right…or is that right?!?). What I notice in myself is that I’m not quick to have opinions about the flotsam and jetsam of daily life; a lot of the cost of living doesn’t get to me. Not like it once did at any rate. Maybe experience desensitizes, but I have another thought: maybe the more personally invested I am in both the event and my own opinion of the event, the more “hot” the emotional response. And when I drive or meditate or journal and watch my thoughts arise, I get less invested and yet more curious, more interested in my own opinions. Less, “Oh, that pissed me off so I’ll kick the goddamn dog” and more “Oh, that pissed me off. I wonder why?”

Of course not all small talk reinforces social bonds. The east-coast norm of “conversation as competition” doesn’t suit my taste…although having spent years immersed I’ve learned to be comfortable making ball-busting personal attacks instead of listening to what someone has to say. (God is that psychically taxing.) I had the privilege of meeting some challenging, opinionated, confrontational personalities in the course of my work and education (most of which involved no formal schooling, and I’ve tried not to let school interfere with my actual education). One particularly smart (Ph.D.) and sarcastic (New York) classmate and I got to talking about the nature of “rules of evidence” in the scientific investigation process. Science continually wrestles with subjective judgments and objective facts; this is particularly pronounced in the social sciences where “laws of physics” simply don’t hold. Instead human behavior being wildly unpredictable is more or less governed by recurring patterns, so it’s more faithful to say that something is “statistically true” or is “generally the case” that to suggest that human nature has gravity-like invariant rules. Take traffic: it may be that most people get frustrated by delays in traffic (I’m not sure since I haven’t polled most people, but play along for a minute). Nevertheless you may find people who are simply content even in the worst bumper to bumper traffic. Whatever their genetic makeup or sunny disposition they aren’t bothered by traffic. Now most of us can put ourselves in this state with a simple procedure. Drive as if performing an experiment. That is, set aside some time where you aren’t in a rush and where making you late won’t make you miss out on something important like a client meeting or your nephew’s football game. Then go into the snarl and just pay attention to what’s going on. Look at the expression on other drivers’ faces. Take note of the road signs. Watch as people struggle to merge far too early (as in Minnesota where people send written invitations to other drivers, “Oh my word, please, after you. I hate to be a bother. Maybe we should form one line now because we’ll have to merge in a mile or so.”) or much too late (as in Chicago where they merge after the sign, knock down road cones, and take you out if you don’t get the fuck out the way). Just observe.

So we get to talking about scientific progress, experimental reproduction, and the focus of interest. Now he believes that all science is the arbitrary opinion of scientists; I by contrast say something about science as a moving, progressing target where the rules of evidence (experimental results, data, etc.) are under perennial revision. I figure we don’t agree and we probably won’t sort out or differences in a little after-class banter but my curiosity has me asking more about his opinion (which by the way he is fully confident is as factual as factual gets). As we’re talking he becomes more rhetorical, more persuasive, as though he’s offended at my mere observation of his position. I tell him I don’t feel the need to persuade him that I’m “right,” and that I have no desire to “win” a conversation about science. He remarks, “That seems remarkably antisocial!” Ironic that a classic introverted borderline-Asperser’s intellectual would call me antisocial but I accepted is judgment with the remark: “Although it’s an ongoing struggle to do so, I’ve learned to love and respect people with whom I disagree. I feel no compulsion to fight over differences of opinion and I’m antisocial? Okay.” For kicks I baited with, “You know, Jesus loves you!” because I knew that would rile his cynical urban atheistic aesthetic.

Half way through town I spot a gated shop called “The Mustang Place” with half a dozen pones parked out front and it’s as if I lose consciousness. My autonomic system parks the car for me, gets out and starts taking pictures like wild.

A burly guy comes out (who I assume is security telling me to move along) and gently shouts, “We’re closing up shop for the afternoon.”
I come closer. “I’m passing through town and being a Mustang nut I had to get a shot of me and the car.”
“Oh,” he thinks for a minute then invites me in. “C’mon we’re almost done here.”

Opening the gate I follow him onto the lot and get the lowdown on the cars. Most are customer cars where he does mechanical maintenance and upgrades. The white/tan interior car parked out front belonged to a little old lady (from Albuquerque…does it get more appropriate?) who passed. Beautifully maintained notchback, all the upgrades, fantastic shape. A few unfortunate body-bumper strips and hood lock-downs but otherwise great shape and an amazing $10K asking price. I was ready to buy it myself, being that my autonomic system was still controlling my behavior. Seriously my head was spinning in the presence of all these beautifully preserved cars.

It doesn’t take long for my “part of the family” credentials to get me a chance to tour the shop. I get shown around the shop, and I see the showcase car: a 1967 fastback that will come out when all is said and done as a “Bullitt” clone. He says the work is for a well-off doctor who he advised against buying the car, knowing that paint hides secrets and a little surface rust goes a long way towards massive hidden rust. The doctor didn’t care, the car had to be his. (Pragmatism rules. “Hey, as long as he pays my going rate I don’t mind doing the work.”) With a few more shots of the machine-in-progress we get to trading restore war stories and he points out the new frame assembly, new rear axle, and new suspension he put onto the fastback. Then he takes me to the other side of the garage to show me where he spends his weekends: a tricked ’67 with body work in progress he calls his own. He says this car is coming together slowly and steadily. I know the feeling. I’m surprised when he discloses that he’s never done body work before; he’s mechanical and he hires the body guys, so he’s all along the learning curve. Good for him, I commend. How many people find themselves experts in some area (say, engines, or finance, or the law, restaurants, whatever) and let their fear of failing at something new prevent them from trying new things. Stunted growth, our developmental psychologist friends might call it. I mean if you have the will and the time what’s the worst that can happen? Spend a few hours or sink a few grand into a hobby. And the upside? Investing time in a passion, a new skill, a new career, something along those lines.

Fear sucks.

Seriously, I hate fear. I’d like to kick fear in the teeth, shoot it, drown it, tie its balls to a truck and drive it around the block, put a sack over its head, kick it in the teeth again, burn it, bury it, throw it in the river, and piss on its grave.

Hate sucks too. I’d like to kick hate in the…oh, wait.

He tells me about some of the cars out front. Some are works in progress, half-done projects that ran out of money. Some are grandson gifts that will see more work as grandpa sees fit. Some are waiting to be driven off by their out-of-town owners. I get the feeling that some of these projects took an emotional toll, the hassle of customers being what it is, but that he loves the cars and the work and wouldn’t trade it for anything. Work so meaningful and fulfilling that even though the bullshit remains (secret revealed: it never ever ever goes away) it’s all still completely worth it. At the end of the day isn’t that what we’re all looking for? Okay, you might not be but that’s the kick I’m on.

After a short stop at student square and a coffee shop across from the University of New Mexico (always interesting to see what student life is like in towns with perfect weather) I head down the hill toward the Central drag and catch a few nice photos of the old route along the way. Central is where the clubs and bars are—though at four in the afternoon you wouldn’t believe there was a speck of nightlife within a hundred miles. I was in for a surprise but didn’t know it yet.

I found a spot in front of Cherry’s younger and uglier sister, a beat-up green ’67 with a luggage rack (the only noteworthy feature of the car) and strolled up and down the street to get a few late-sun shots. Hungry and in need of an internet fix I went into a restaurant that advertised, somewhat peculiarly, coffee, beer, wine, food. I’m not very catholic about my separation of coffee and liquor, but it struck me as unusual that a restaurant would double as a coffee house internet hub. Note to self: observe, don’t judge. I make myself at home in a little seat out of the way and the loveliest little waitress catches my attention: doe eyes as big as…well, doe eyes…and a smile that would knock you over. I’m half distracted finally being online and indecisive about what I’d like, though I have an idea and I don’t think it’s on the menu (coffee internet bar restaurant, remember; although somehow the subject of a stripper pole in the middle of the floor worked its way into the conversation). I settle on the waitress’ recommendation of batter fried mushrooms and a chicken sandwich and it’s slow enough I ask her what the kids do for fun in Albuquerque, “you know, after dark?” She tells me this is it, and I ask, “You mean get drunk in the Charlie's?” “No,” she laughs, “but all the clubs and bars open up at night. Yeah, it’s hard to tell during the day, but I’ve lived here all my life so I guess I just kind of know where to go.”

“Hang on,” I say sincerely surprised, “you can’t be old enough they let you into a bar?”
“Sure, I’m twenty-one,” she brags. “I go to bars sometimes, you just have to be mindful of the cholos. What do you want to do, like, tourist stuff?”
“I guess I’m more interested in getting the vibe of the place. I’m on a road trip from Chicago and want to figure out the best way to spend the day and the night.”
“That’s cool. I like Chicago. My aunt lives in Indiana and I visit her a lot too. Around here…well,” she tells me, “the tram car ride is fantastic. If you catch the sunset from the mountain that’s really pretty. The Sandia mountains, that’s Spanish for watermelon because the dust is red and the trees make it look like watermelon.”
“Might do that,” I acknowledge, and it sounds fun but I’m not sure if I’ll make it up the hill before dusk. “Like you, what do you do for fun on a typical Friday?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” she hesitates. “I hike a lot, walk my dog…”
“What kind of dog?” I interrupt, always fascinated by people’s choice of breeds. I don’t think there’s some cosmic correlation between breed and owner, but for whatever reason it fascinates me. I don’t think I’ve ever heard someone tell me a breed that didn’t “fit” their personality. Could it be that upon hearing the breed I adjust my thoughts about the person and come to expect that breed?
“A Chihuahua,” she answers.
“Shut up!” I’m surprised to find myself interjecting, “are you a spoiled rich girl? A Paris wannabe?”
“No, I’ll show you,” she happily parades off.

I’m usually not so quick to judge but Chihuahuas hardly seem like dogs. They’re semi-tame lap rats. As she hurries away I catch a glimpse of her hip butterfly tattoo and my heart flutters just like the butterfly. Before too long she’s back with her digital camera.

“My dog’s crazy…”
“Like its owner,” I insist.
“…look, see, when he’s hungry,” continues and shows me a shot of the animal at full attention glaring at the camera with a raging hard-on.
“Yeah, that’s not hunger.”
“No, see, here’s another and he smiling!” she ignores.
“Yeah, again, bearing teeth isn’t quite a smile. But it’s close, I’ll give you that one.”

A few more shots and I’m getting just how much she loves her dog. That’s sweet. I don’t have a pet (besides Cherry and she more high-maintenance, like a wife) but I adore dog owners. All too often they see their dog as an extension of themselves. Take my friend Tyson, he’s got a Japanese chin that expresses all his neurotic feelings toward strangers through yelps and barks so Tyson doesn’t have to. He and his dog are simpatico. Whether you chalk it up to sheer classical conditioning or you want to anthropomorphize your puppy, who doesn’t love unconditional love? Who doesn’t want to come home to that kind of attention and affection after a long day on the wage-labor cycle?

For that matter, what is love but for one you adore to adore you back? I’ll take a double dose of that with my batter fried mushrooms plzkthx.

Much as I’d like to build on the banter I’ve got some town to see and my waitress a job to do now that the dinner crowd is picking up. On my way out I realize I hadn’t got her name so I introduce myself, she tells me her name is Amy. I tell her how lovely it was to meet her and give her my card telling her to stay in touch and knowing she won’t. “Have fun in Albuquerque!” she implores as I leave and I note with all sincerity, “It’ll be hard not to.”

Not far down the road is Old Town, the original city center preserved from its Spanish plaza heritage (fortified walls, inward-facing windows, and winding central streets to protect it from Indian attacks). Pulling onto the square and parking Cherry I get all kinds of good attention and wow’s from the early teen boys and girls I’m terribly eager to impress. With a vague sense of direction I set out in search of a map or a bar, whatever comes first. Founded in 1706 the Old Town is just that, and yet much like the boom towns on Route 66 that have busted and redefined themselves one can see how the Old Town has been at once preserved stylistically and culturally while being renewed and renovated. Arriving just before dusk I found most shops closed but still got a strong sense of the native and folk craft style. Pueblo and native American freely mixed with Spanish and western influences. Salad bowl indeed.

The map comes first. A guided tour shop give me a brief overview of the history, allows me some souvenir brochures, and suggests I come back tomorrow for the 30 minute walking tour. I take it under advisement, but my pseudo-adventurer streak strongly resists group tours and guided events. It all feels too antiseptic and Disney for my taste. I like stumbling off the beaten path, getting things wrong, missing out on what I should have seen. It gives me fodder to compare notes and make conversation with my fellow tourists and travelers and passers through.

No, that’s not it. I’m just being stubborn and contrarian because dad was the same way and I learned it, but good. Thanks for the temper and the small bladder, dad. (Okay, fine, thanks for the decent manners and basic sense of responsibility too.)

I work my way through old town and as night sets in find a café to pass the time until Central comes to life. I figure around 11 or so the bars will be open and I’ll get a feel for the outdoor clubs and bars Amy was talking about. And boy, do I ever.

I park Cherry on the west side of the strip just out of the way of the squad cars. About a mile of Central (the Albuquerque stretch of Route 66 mind you) is closed to traffic, and there are shapes and colors dudes and skirts spilling out onto the streets in various stages of alcohol-induced handicap. Weird bands of colorful cliques, like the team of six Garth Brooks-identical cowboys, detailed from their tucked-jean cowboy boots and spurs to their neck kerchiefs to their crisp ten gallon hats. Half of them black and half of them white and all of them talking like Roscoe P. Coltrane. Why was I expecting black hillbillies to be more black than hillbilly? Clearly black is a recessive trait to the dominant hillbilly allele. As I’m walking toward Central’s bar district something Amy mentioned bubbles to the surface, “mindful of the cholos.” What’s a cholo? I wonder. Is asking going to get me stabbed? To play it safe I approach a group of kids on the corner and talk them up, quickly find out they’re the straight-edge skater types and that a cholo is a Mexican gangster, whether legitimate or a fashion victim, who likes to trick out his car with hydraulics and speckled paint. As if on cue, a tricked-out Chevy convertible rumbles past then leaps eight inches in the air, bounces, readjusts, and seats back down low. Very low. I ask if the gangsters are a serious threat and they say mostly not.

“Well, my cousin was in town and one of them came at him wanting his wallet,” the girl warns. “He thought he was mocking them or something. Anyway they pick a fight and beat him up real good.”
“Was he wearing colors?” I ask.
“No, just a white t-shirt and jeans, sneakers,” she recalls.
“Just like I'm wearing now,” I notice looking down at my own attire. They all get a laugh out of that.

I thank the kids and make a maxim of their information: Don’t mess with the Mexican gangsters. Or their ladies, if you’re smart. As I approach the intersection where the bodies and police cars have congregated I’m totally aware of what a scene I’m in. Groups seem to float together interacting with other like groups and ignoring others entirely. Like you don’t even notice the oxygen around you, so the Mexican gangsters don’t seem to acknowledge the coeds but just pass by. Similarly the muscle-bound frat boys clump in groups oblivious to the cowboys. Usually I’d write this of as cliques of friends, but what caught my attention on this particular night was how groups seemed to find other groups. It didn’t feel closed or unwelcome. Maybe it was the party-in-the-street vibe and maybe I was reading in, but I’ll be damned if it wasn’t just like people out of one’s social caste were invisible.

I bar hop and people hop for a few hours and take in the Albuquerque bar scene. It feels great to blow off some steam especially with the day I’ve had. But feeling no desire to linger, early in the morning I make my way to a motel just past town to get some hard-earned rest.

Next stop: On a Dark Desert Highway