An Evening In The City Different

I hot-footed it to Santa Fe's Railyard District.
Tomasita's would close soon.
I wanted to get my New Mexican meal on.


What about those yelpy wet blankets that poo-pooed this place?  
They said it was a tourist trap.
Well, tell those guys that I'm a tourist.
And a hungry one.
So they can go complain about Jiffy Lube or something.
I'm eating.
Also, tell them it wouldn't hurt to improve their spelling.
Especially if they're going to be yelling in all caps like that.
Dining has one N.


What are you eating?
A sopaipilla.
I had never heard of it.
It's a cat's pillow of quick bread.
You tear open the warm soft poof, spread it with butter, and pour honey onto it from a squeeze bottle.
It's duckin' felicious, pachuco!


Are you trying to speak in that archaic New Mexican zoot suit slang?
Sort of.


What did you order?
A beef-stuffed sopaipilla, presented "Christmas", with both red and green chile sauces.
The chiles were hot, like the signs had warned, but not obnoxious.
Though I did sip my beer more frequently than one normally sips beer.
Those boring yelpers need to find another hobby.
Tomasita's was super-pilla.


Are you still trying to speak Caló?
No.
I'm just being a dork.


Some moony club music pulsed from one of the old rail cars in the depot.
No signs indicated that you could not climb onto the train cars.
So I did, trying to locate the party car.
Probably the caboose.
Disco hobos.

The music came from the other side of the train.
PA speakers were being assaulted for some sort of douchey club thing.
It looked like one of those events that I do my best to avoid.


I like music, so I'm going to stick around for the club event.
I like music too, so I'm going to go.


I wandered around Santa Fe Plaza.
Lots of colorfully dressed folks on benches having local chats.
A couple of scabby hippies in the park silently practiced TM or witchcraft.
A teen on a thick BMX bike darted in and out of the sleepy traffic, always fucking up his can-can bunny hop.
A skater's board slipped out from under his feet.
Boneheads.


Marble Brewery had been recommended.
The balcony overlooking the plaza was crowded with squares.
I sat at the bar and watched the Tour de France.
They were going through the hills.
Up mostly.
The television kept replaying a minor downhill wipe out in slow motion.
The girl next to me laughed.
But she was laughing at something on her phone.


A couple of rich hippies talked loudly about nothing.
They sported white Dean Torrence haircuts.
On the way out one of them referenced Star Wars to the young bartender.
"I don't know if you'll get that reference," he farted through his mouth.
The bartender defended his knowledge of Star Wars.
"No, but the original Star Wars!" the rich drunk hippie challenged.
The bartender used phrases like "our generation" and "your generation" to explain that he was quite familiar with Star Wars.
"When were you born?"
The rich hippie wanted to know.
"1982."
"Well, I was born in 1962!!"
And that settled the discussion about Star Wars.


Back at the Silver Saddle, a full moon shone brightly over my kitschy kitschy bangalow.
I nailed my cowboy cap to the cement wall, took off my cowboy sneakers, and grabbed a siesta grande under a ceiling under the stars.