talk to me
Oh dear. There was tequila, I remember that much. And limes, almost certainly. I vaguely recall a fetching chica -- or maybe two -- sporting a swirling skirt, bare midriff and a bullhorn. There was most definitely careening involved, and an inordinate amount of hooting, hollering and "ai-yi-yi"-ing. But frankly, my dears, It's all a bit of a blur.
It all started with my companion, the lovely La Loca, cutting it a wee bit close at the start of the evening, screeching up in front of mi casa with only 15 minutes before the Mexican Bus was scheduled to leave Chevy's, inconveniently located clear across town.
"Andale!" I shouted, urging her to run every red light on the way. "The Mexican Bus could leave without us!" La Loca laughed merrily. "Since when does a San Francisco bus go anywhere on time?" La Loca knew whereof she spoke, of course -- it turned out that the 9:30 departure time really meant oh, 10:15 or so, give or take a few minutes. So there was plenty of time to partake of a mango margarita and learn a new phrase ("El bartender es muy guapo") before clambering on board.
The Mexican Bus is rumored not to have brake lights, but the suave driver, Jaime denies this ("No es verdad!"), not that it matters, since he doesn't seem to use them much. The bus itself is a thing of beauty, all red velvet, fringe, beads, paper flowers, and people stuffed three to a seat. The mariachi music is nearly loud enough to drown out the shouting of patrons demanding tequila. "The bus es muy rowdy," comments La Loca, a bit unnecessarily.
The steep $25 cover charge tonight is to benefit a play, "Rampage," which opens August 9th, and a key plot point seems to involve the search for Dick Del Grande (get it?). That's what the bullhorn brandishing Sylvia says anyway; and who can doubt a woman who makes the combination of gold lame and pink boa seem well thought out? She plaintively tells us that we must help her find her dog, Tito, urging us to shout out the windows when we pull up in front of the SFMOMA, "Donde esta Tito?" It doesn't take much urging, as the tequila flows up one side of the bus and down the other. Whee!
Barrelling through the Tenderloin, we pass a huge group of done-to-the-nines drag queens tottering down the street. When we shout our approval, the cop in the paddy wagon next to us merely smiles instead of pulling us over for the countless laws we're flaunting. Our first stop, by some mysterious logic, is to see Pride & Joy at the Great American Music Hall. Now, I have nothing against a decent Motown cover band, but what the hey does this collegiate cruise scene have to do with our mission to find Tito and Dick Del Grande? Nothing, apparently, but there is dancing, cervezas and general carrying on for the next hour. Then we pile back on the bus and demand more tequila, holding out the shot glasses we were issued upon boarding until they are filled, quickly drained and filled again.
For no apparent reason, we then are deposited at some arty party called Anon Salon, where La Loca immediately strikes up a conversation with a local writer widely known for his ever-present beret. "Hey! Aren't you that bald guy?" she asks, before flicking it from his head. I stare dumbfounded, nearly as impressed by her audacity as I am by the fact that the guy actually has hair. Who knew?
Back on the bus, nobody appears to have actually had sex yet, but there is a certain stickiness in the air. Or maybe it's just all that tequila. Our final stop is a wee dive bar in the Mission, where actual salsa and marimba music is being performed. We've long since given up our search for Tito, but for more than a few, it appears that the quest for Dick Del Grande may be at an end.
[This article orginally appeared in the San Francisco Bay Guardian on August 7, 1996.]