Extreme Tijuana

CABARET SUBTERRANEO, read the fax: an evening with the Mexican Art Underground in wild and woolly Tijuana. My friend Michael, a closet bohemian/young film exec, said it was going to be a killer event, not to be missed. New music, new art, new theater. And we both had new girlfriends. So we’d take the ladies on a romantic train ride down the coast and impress them with a memorable weekend. It was going to be a full moon too!

Yes…it turned out to be an extremely memorable weekend.

The late afternoon rail from L.A. to San Diego offered a spectacular view of the Pacific. We sat in the observation car, two couples drinking fine wine, snacking on brie and baguettes, cuddling romantically, and watching the sun set into the warm azure sea, as a promising full moon rose over the horizon. Michael and I smiled at each other and at the ladies, who seemed to juxtapose the full range of blond femininity. His was Jillian, a tall and austere, anorexic ex-model, and mine was Frances: more athletically compact and curvy, Betty Page-coiffed, and blessed with a pair of just-turned-twenty-one, God-honest 36D cups…pressed ever-so-warmly against my more mature and ever-so-understanding arms. Yes, life was sweet…heh, heh, heh, and that sublime 1985 Château Latour kept pouring.

We were quite buzzed as we wound our way through the endless multi-level tunnel that divides the United States and Mexico. Throngs of humans pushed along with us, such as returning Mexican workers and garrulous Yankee sailors from nearby Naval stations. Finally, we got cursorily waived through a turnstile and we emerged in Tijuana, Mexico: the wild, anything-goes border town…on a Friday night with a full moon rising!

The streets of downtown TJ are jammed with people out for a good time — and those that wish to provide it. Music is blaring everywhere. Colorful lights and signs are flashing. Mexican teenagers dance and yell from rooftop cafes. Hustlers of every description push and grab us. It is surreal. Our ladies cling tight.

“Girls! Girls! Showtime! Showtime!” yell the pitchmen, beckoning rowdy young suckers out for a night of mischief. A large kid pushes flowers in my face as his cohort expertly trips in front of me and another goes for my wallet. I twist away and curse, clutching my rear pocket, adrenaline coursing through my veins. My wallet is still there and I want to smack the rascals, but it’s not politically correct to punch poor kids. Frances squeezes a little tighter, calming my ruffled feathers. “We’re almost there,” declares Michael, looking at the meticulous map that Luis, the evening’s impresario, had prepared. “Thank God,” says Jillian.

We pass the historic Jai Alai building, home of that still popular Aztec sport of hurling rubber balls at warp speed with a long cup/wrist-like attachment. Finally, we get to our destination: a tall run-down building, built in the 60s and designed to last at least ten years. It is dark. The doors are locked. Michael studies the map. This has to be the place! Then we notice someone staring down from a high balcony. “Luis got arrested!” he shouts. “Arrested?” we query. “Si, arrested! Come back later…people coming later!” Maybe TJ was like Barcelona, where hot parties don’t even begin until 1:00am. “Come on,” says Michael, “I know a fun place to go for while!”

We take a cab to Lucha Libre. This is wrestling… Mexican style. Michael has a Mexican wrestling script he wants me to read. It’s Felliniesque!

[Felliniesque: In the style of Frederico Fellini (1920-1993), famous Italian film director known for his colorful characters and sometimes surreal images.]

The place is Felliniesque, okay, packed to the brim with drunken locals. We are escorted to makeshift ringside seats. Vendors bring us steaming pork tacos and cup after cup of strong beer. A guy is thrown out of the ring–almost at our feet! The crowd is roaring. Guys in masks are attacking guys in capes. Light shows blind us, and the music and screams are deafening. This is an epic battle of good versus evil, making American professional wrestling seem tame and wimpy by comparison. Wrestlers are really getting injured. The crowd is so insanely engaged by the event, one would think the very fate of the universe hinged on the outcome.

Frances is laughing, swilling beer and munching her pork with gusto. Jillian, a country club WASP by background and now a vegetarian, doesn’t seem to enjoy choking on cigar smoke and getting sprinkled by the sweat of smelly men. Suddenly, a bearded Goliath heaves a midget, Samson, right into the guy sitting next to me. I offer the stout little warrior a swig of my brew. “Gracias amigo!” And he fearlessly charges back into the ring and delivers a devastating uppercut punch, smack in the balls of the big nasty giant, who drops to his knees in agony. Thunderous roars of approval almost take the roof off, as our diminutive hero goes in for the kill. Empowered with righteous and maniacal zeal, he savagely jumps and stomps upon his larger wicked foe. My mind dubs the “Mighty Mouse” theme over the deafening din.

A few hours later, content that good has conquered evil once again, we try back at Cabaret Subterraneo. The “party” is in full swing–all twelve of them. “Too bad Luis got busted. I guess he should’a let more people know about the event,” apologizes a local artist who had a few paintings hanging on the wall. The view of the moon, now high in the sky, is nice from the balcony. Michael is telling me more about his great Lucha Libre script. Then Luis shows up.

How was he to know he’d get in trouble because of his pocket knife…a switchblade, I think we call it? Luis had to testify at some minor civil thing in San Diego and had a little trouble with the metal detector or something. He just got out!

Luis Ramirez is a cool, 40ish bohemian who learned to roll cigars in Cuba. A good heart, but all right brain, no left brain at all. He’ll do the event next week, he says. “Come on,” he implores Michael, “Lemme take you guys out and I show you the real Tijuana!”

Michael is drunk on Tequila. Jillian is looking exhausted and uptight. Frances has never been to Mexico…but this isn’t really Mexico. It’s Tijuana. And off we go, trying to keep up with Luis down the winding back alleys of the city’s seediest barrios. “I show you the real Tijuana! The real Tijuana!”

The place he takes us to has two scary looking off-duty cops outside checking for I.D. My intuition tells me that if they needed to see I.D. in Tijuana, something really dirty is going on inside. “Are you sure you want to go in?” I ask Frances. “Do not worry,” assures Luis, “The weeman in there will try and touch the men’s penises, but they have no weapons and it is completely safe for Americans.” Frances and Jillian exchange a glance that they do not want the weeman to touch their boyfriend’s penises. I am drunk, in a new relationship that I care about, and I know that going in is not the best idea. And in we go…

…Into a torrid, steamy, jam-packed room. Women are everywhere. Men are groping women and women are groping men. But underneath the rouge and mascara, these are the hardest women I have ever seen. Lizard women from some Star Wars galaxy might have softer auras. Naked ladies twist lewdly on a stage. Stuff happens that I cannot write about. In darkened corners…men and women… holy shit! Is that Jar-Jar Binks getting his…?!!

Luis presses more shots of tequila into our hands before disappearing with some plump Chihuahua. I hold Frances tight for safety, not wanting some strange lizard woman to touch my penis (and a few try). The room swirls oppressively. Uh oh! Michael has been swallowed by the crowd, and Jillian is in a serious panic, as I suspect her Brave New universe* had run dry of Prozac several hours earlier. “Motherfucker! Motherfucker! Motherfucker!” she stammers. “Hold on,” I say, as Frances and I quickly go look for Michael.

We find him staggering in a corner, his pants half down and looking for his wallet. Then there is a commotion from across the room. It’s Jillian! She has stripped off her top and climbed upon the stage. She seems to be doing a cross between a strip tease and a hissy fit. Quite a sight: her manic dance and starved flopping bosoms, not really the composed advertisement her country club or pharmaceutical company would approve of.

“Gringa! Gringa! Gringa!” bellow men in the crowd. I push my way through and pull Jillian away, draping her shoulders with my jacket. I recover Michael and Frances and quickly hustle my group towards the door. Jillian is sobbing hysterically. Michael is trying not to throw up. Just as we leave, hands swarm my crotch and ass. Crack! Frances has punched some girl in the jaw, almost decking her.

“Did you really have to do that, hon’?” I ask, as we hurry down the street. “Only I get to touch your penis now,” Frances smiles and hands me my wallet back. What a gal! And back at our fleabag motel, under the influence of a very full moon, things only get better. Chivalry precludes me from further elaboration upon the joys of budding and eager youth, endowed with profound and quite remarkable skills and art. Oh my!

The next morning we join Michael and Jillian for a mariachi brunch. They seem to have a mutually agreed upon amnesia regarding the previous night. I, on the other hand, had no such amnesia and savour Frances savouring her perfectly prepared ranchero omelet, washed down with a cool, dark amber-hued Negra Modela beer. Michael nurses a large marguerita, as Jillian does anorexic stuff with her food, picking at things and moving shit around while not really eating much. I am about to tell her that she is looking kind of fat lately, but instead I keep my jaws employed with tasty beef enchiladas, also followed by Negra Modela, which, in my opinion, is one of the better and certainly more distinctive of Mexican beers. Burp!

The train ride back was uneventful: the four celebratants now sleepy, hung over and thoroughly exhausted. But should any of you be interested, I hear that Luis is throwing another big art event next full moon weekend…right in back of the old Jai Alai Stadium…

In Extreme Tijuana.

*For all of our younger readers who rely on TV and Internet for most of their knowledge, we highly recommend Aldous Huxley’s prophetic science fiction novel, Brave New World.

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