CHARRO DAYS

I celebrated Charro Days Saturday night with a Mardi Gras passion. The reveler came to life in the darkness. I began at Sombrero Fest. I had the privilege to share a hug with Sombrero Fest's founder Danny "El Loco" Loff. Once his child, the fiesta has become his grandchild as the retired businessman returns to the wanderlust of his youth.

My oldest son Carlos and I took a taxi and went downtown. I don't have a car and he didn't want to drive intoxicated. I rented a room at the Cameron Hotel, which has served as my home away from home after my miscellaneous wives have booted me out into the street. Just because I won't become famous as an artist, I can still have numerous divorces and succumb to my sordid instincts while maintaining a patina of decency.

The owners have remodeled the hotel, which has a chintzy sophistication. Repainted both inside and outside, the foyer is spotless and a wide staircase with new carpeting leads to the rooms on the second floor. I rented a large room with two double beds and a big screen television for $52. Confident that we were safe in the bowels of our dilapidated downtown, we embarked on our bacchanalian night.

After paying the ten-dollar entry fee each to Sombrero Fest and consuming two hot dogs and drinking four beers apiece at $14 and $32 respectively, we had had enough of the music and old faces. We opted for our familiar haunts in the historic district.

We commenced the second phase of our parranda at Terra's Bar & Grill to hear "Delta" Dave. I played at the joint, but the owner refused to allow me on the stage after he judged my lyrics too lurid. But with the passing of time, I don't hold grudges unless it's an old love who has left me to fuck other guys. Some sins are unpardonable unless you are bereft of machismo and a modicum of pride.

Stimulated by Handelman's growing penchant for bossa nova rhythms, I gently pushed his son playing lead guitar and singing aside and made love to the microphone as if I were giving it a blow job. I rendered my spontaneous rendition of La Petite Mort in French. I was pleasantly surprised by my performance. Carlos and I shared a botana plate and a bottle of wine.

We crossed the street to El Hueso de Fraile and ordered another bottle of wine and garlic bread. Some little girl was shouting lyrics and I welcomed the quiet after her set. I met with disconcerting news. Adrian Foncerrada, El Hueso's proprietor and the border's most versatile musician, is facing deportation as well as members of his family.

His crime: He has dared make a better life for himself and his family by making downtown Brownsville a better place. Is Trump a Hitler whose long tentacles will snatch our Hispanic brethren like the Nazis rounded up Jews and forced them into lines that led to gas chambers? Forgive the hyperbole, but when good people like the Foncerrada family are threatened by the government, the most apathetic citizen can't help but be concerned.

We resumed our amble and crossed paths with a prostitute sitting on a bench in front of the Cameron. Since I'm a reporter and background plays an important role in articles, I asked her price--$30. I asked about business and she said she hadn't had a customer all night. I wished her the best. We all have kids to feed.

The Kraken was our next stop. The bar serves the best and cheapest pizza in town, but we weren't hungry. We drank one beer and I beat Carlos in a game of pool. These are personal showdowns. I could have picked up the sexiest chick in Brownsville and she would have proved less satisfying than this triumph.

We went next door to the Half Moon. The musicians were setting up their instruments, but the joint was empty. A county commissioner candidate was hosting an informal campaign rally at his business-residence on the second floor of a Washington Street building. He will be opening the Spanish Moon, a coffee shop, in the near future. Part of his shop includes a large roof top where one can gaze at the Immaculate Conception Cathedral to the north and Matamoros to the south.

By this time the bewitching hour had come and gone. I told Carlos that I didn't see any prospects, not that I would have been in any condition to keep up my end of the bargain, and I was ready to return to the Cameron. He dutifully accompanied me.

The next morning we rose, ate breakfast at one of the greasy spoons and caught a bus to the northside. Carlos had parked his car at my apartment. Another Charro Days had come and gone.