First, the gig was on the 23rd, then the 22. We were playing at 10--no, wait, 9--uh, could we be there
by 7:30? It was a celebration of the arts, a literary festival, a street carnival. We were traveling
separately, carpooling, meeting at Lori's/Jon's/Lorna's. We were promised buffets, finger foods,
margaritas, Catholic virgins waving palm fronds.
We found food (great) and margaritas (ick) at
Michael reads an excerpt from his profane but Our "opening act." Poetry & music. We like.
uplifting tome, Continental Drift.
The promised margaritas became Pacifico in cans.
The audience was small but appreciative. The lighting was....pretty much what you see.
The Pacifico hits Kathy suddenly.
Returning, we stopped at a club on Obregon. Man, did we find margaritas.
Jon surveys Colby's mounting tequila intake. Jon attempts to remain anonymous.
"I don't know these gringos. I'm a respectable man" Lori displays her tonsils, again, for the camera.
Damn camera. Otra margarita, por favor. How did we get home?