tjhandbook.jpgIt was Summer, 1996. Joey and I had traveled across the country – driving my ‘91 Chevy Camaro – straight through from Florida to California – with a brief 13 or so hours in New Orleans of course. As my father always said when speaking of the French Quarter, “I spent a week there one night.” And that is a story for a different day.
19 years old, him and I, with my 20th looming on the horizon, we hit the road and bounced from city to city, state to state, for a month, never staying in one place for more than a couple days. Too many stories to remember, but today… Today I’m here to tell the story of our first time in Tijuana, Mexico.


We awoke in the car at sunrise, in some parking lot in San Diego. We walked across the border early – 8 or 9am. Right on the other side there were immediately multiple places to acquire breakfast. So we did – but something was a bit different here with my huevos rancheros, (a dish that at the time I had no idea what it meant), I was offered a Dos Equis. This, my friends, was wonderful. See, as I mentioned earlier, Joey and I were underage – in the U.S. – and we had only been able to commandeer one fake ID for the trip. This meant that we mostly had to take turns going into bars when we wanted to. This sounds so silly now, but we did it. In New Orleans, in San Diego, wherever necessary. One person inside, the other on the sidewalk waiting. Once, I managed to sneak past an old security guard at a strip club in New Orleans, but again, that’s another story. Huevos Rancheros and Dos Equis – One of the grandest breakfasts of my young life.
I’ll never forget this day for the rest of my life. I can’t tell you what I had for lunch yesterday, but I remember every last detail of this day. After breakfast, we ventured towards Revolucion Avenue – this is where my “Tijuana Handbook” told us to go. On the way I stopped and purchased a wonderful t-shirt. And I used my newly acquired bartering skills on the unsuspecting merchant. He said $15 – I said $8 – He said $12 – I walked away. He says, OK $10 – Done. A $2 shirt for $10 that reads “Wine Me Dine Me 69 Me.” I’ll wear it on my wedding day.
Continuing on, we got our names on pieces of rice – a necklace that I would, years later, lose in the Nevada desert somewhere. As soon as we reached the main square before Revolucion, (it must’ve been 10 or so by now), we were accosted by a guy telling us about 2 for 1 drinks – right up these stairs. The sun barely accepting the day ahead of it, and we’re going for 2 for 1’s in an empty bar on the second floor in this strange little Mexican town. Joey had two Tom Collins – two margaritas for me – and in the fine tradition of TJ, of course these came with a shot of tequila.
Two rounds in that joint and we move on – our young constitutions well on the way to oblivion – we decide that this would be a good time to buy some weed to smoke out of the fine TJ bowl Joey had just purchased. What can I say? I was once a passenger on that train as well. We try the technique learned just last summer at Soldier Field, Chicago – Grateful Dead Concert – walking, making eye contact with likely “holders” and kinda sorta loudly whispering, “weed.” Brilliant.
Eventually, somehow, this “works”. The dude stops. We tell him we’re looking to score some weed. He says, “No problem. My dude’s got it. Right there,” and he points to a 3rd story window across the street, “give me the 40 bucks, and I’ll bring it right back to you.” Now even in our drunken conditions, we knew that was a bad idea. “We’re not giving you our money and letting you just walk away.”
“Oh, no,” he says, “you guys hold this acid until I get back.” He holds out his hand – a sheet of 20 squares, each with a little reddish/purplish dot on them, wrapped in a cigarette pack cellophane. Now, Joseph and I, although having been to the final Grateful Dead show, having read On The Road, Electric Kool-Aid Acid Test, Flashbacks, etc., had never actually seen acid. And this looked like what we had read about. And we wanted to trust this guy. He’s only going right there, right? Okay. Deal. Never underestimate the power of naivete.
The guy runs off and out of sight. And we wait. And wait. An hour goes by and here we are, still slightly buzzed in the noonday Mexican sun, sitting on a curb, anxiously awaiting the return of “the weed guy,” holding this “collateral.” We decide that he’s not coming back. So what to do with all this acid? “We should take it.” I don’t remember which one of us suggested it, although the other would’ve soon enough anyhow. 20 hits. I guess 10 each, right? Well, let’s just say thank God those weren’t real or otherwise I’m pretty sure that we would’ve never made it out of there. EVER. I mean, really imagine two dumb-fuck teenagers, drunk, tripping off TEN hits of acid on Revolucion in the middle of the afternoon. There may not even be words for what would have become of us.
So, we move on. More bars. More bars. This part does become a bit blurry – the whole late morning/early afternoon part. I remember being in the basement of some joint. One of those places where they sneak up on you, pull your head back, pour tequila down your throat, shake your head, and then ask you for $3. Who came up with this brilliant idea? Well, I got a little sick. Had to go rest my head on the nice Mexican Bar Toilet for a bit. This part although not blessed with details, is rich in specific memories. While holding firmly to the toilet, the only thing keeping me from tumbling across the universe, I remember looking up and seeing this guy yelling at me over the stall door.
“You can’t do that in here!” he kept yelling in a thick Mexican accent. His English was not as strong as his sentiment. He finally managed to get the door open to try and throw me out, and as he opens it, who do I see but Joey, right there trying to help me from this bastard. “Can’t you see we’ve got a sick man, here?”
Somehow we get out of there, but there’s no time for sobering up. Shit, I’ve already gotten rid of all the bad stuff. Where can we go to get all this madness out of our system? Hmmm. Where is the place to forget about all the worries of the real world?
“Hey, is that a strip club over there,” I say, “let’s go there.”
Walking across the street we have the obligatory TJ Strip Club conversation. No matter what the “stripper” says, we don’t leave each other’s sight. We walk in, (it’s about 2 or 2:30pm for those keeping track), ID at the door. Yes, we’re over 18. Ha. Through two doorways of thick heavy black curtains – to keep the daylight out and the “who knows” in.
Now, what goes on inside a Tijuana strip club stays inside a Tijuana Strip Club. Vegas ain’t got shit on TJ. So, the secret details of the club unfortunately must remain just that, secret. But I will tell you this, later on, as Joey and I were running for our lives down Revolucion, dodging pedestrians and traffic, being chased by a stripper and a bouncer, I couldn’t help but think of how proud our parents would be if they could see us now.
After eluding the maelstrom behind us, we realize we need money. I’m broke.. Strip Club. Sorry. But there are at least two of several problems we possess that are stopping us from getting more money. Can’t see straight. Can’t speak Spanish. And again, here’s where the details become blurry, (no girls, food, drink, or drugs to spark the memory). Somehow we managed to get two locals to help us with the ATM. I gave him my card to my father’s account and the PIN and Joey and I followed him to an ATM which spit out I don’t remember how many pesos and then he took us to an exchange where he got $270 and some change. These guys wouldn’t even take $5. Not even a drink. They just said you’re welcome and walked away. Amazing. I thought for sure I was going to get fucked on that transaction, but a month later, when I got the statement, because of differing exchange rates, my $270 only withdrew $267 from the account. I actually made a couple dollars on the deal. They could’ve taken it all.
Well, somehow, later that night, we end up right back in the same club where I had been sick earlier. Probably because we recognized it – that quickly becoming a theme to our evening. So, there we are, dancing and drinking at this club – drunk either still from the morning or for the fifth time that day – depends on how you look at it, and who do we see, but “the guy”. Yes, the guy that took our $40 and went to buy us the pot.
Remember him? Well, we did, too. Only we both managed to forget the fact that he stole our money just a few hours earlier. We both see him and run over and hug him, (We Know You!). He’s completely cordial until it hits him. Oh shit! And he disappears into the crowd. Out of there. Of course, Joe and I don’t put all this together until hours later – hours after me handing the Too Sick torch over to Joey – in the same bar as me.
As we headed towards America late that night, I remember this… We bought a pack of Mexican Marlboros which tasted like ass, we stopped at a Hardee’s or a Carls’ Jr., (I don’t remember what they were called then), and I, right back in the square by where our story began, attempted to ride a mechanical bull. Obviously, I was promptly thrown off.
We somehow made it back to the border and for two minutes, no exaggeration, both searched for our IDs while the conversation with the border patrol went something like this.
“What country are you from?”
“Hold on, I’ll find it.”
“What country are you from?”
“It’s gotta be here somewhere.”
“What country are you from!?!”
“Wait, maybe it’s in my other pocket.”
“What country are you from?”
Then, Joey suddenly realized what we were being asked and shouts, matter-of-factly, right into the guards face, “America!” And we walk through.
We walked back to the car, passed out, and continued on in the morning. On to more stories that will someday be told. L.A., San Francisco, Seattle, Salt Lake, Chicago, Burbank, Albuquerque… This is only one of dozens of the ridiculous adventures of Joey and Lou.
Happy Cinco De Mayo!
As always, Mahalo… Lou