New Mexico
My Las Cruces days seem like a million miles away, yet on days like today they appear so damned close that I almost think I can blink my eyes and I will be right back there. Cruces wasn't exactly my favorite place to live, but New Mexico is most certainly a "land of enchantment" in my mind. To this day, some of my favorite memories and sights are the early morning sunrises, sunsets, and vistas found there. I can still close my eyes and smell chilies roasting, smell streetside and roadside stands selling burritos and tamales, and I can still feel the dust in the air coating my skin and laying on me like a forgotten blanket. Those are the good points. Good memories. And then, there are days like today that bring back memories for different reasons.
My old roommate sent me a message on the handy dandy Facebook system (that once again put us in touch--cliche, I know). Anywho . . . her message wasn't as humorous as yesterday when we giggled over a drunken photo of us at the US-Mexican border sign in 2000. See, that was one the many trips I've had where poe poe were inadvertently involved. No, not with me. Heather reminded me that the Mexican police raided the first night club we were at that night. Ha! So, yes, technically there was an incident, but it was not an incident per se. So we giggled about the drunken nature of that night, probably me more so than her because I think she had to drive my inebriated ass and there may or may not have been a moment when we had to rest at the sign to sober me up. Like I said, may or may have not been . . . Kind of like a time in Santa Fe when I may or may not have skied down the slopes on the side of my face. For the record, I was sober. Just a klutz and stupid. Yea, yea, back to the story at hand . . .
Roomie told me that Dave Diaz died. She found out in May that he passed on 8 April from a heart condition. Damn. Dave was a screwball and horndog (yes, I just used a ghetto fabulous 80s term), played sax at local bars, and was a borderline mooch. Oh hell, he was a mooch. I won't say that I've longed for him, certainly not, but he has crossed my mind several times over the years. We spent many a nights on the stoop smoking cigarettes, and we certainly can't forget that Dave had a knack for coming into my room when I was asleep and trying to get his groove on. Heh. He sure did try. Poor Dave, he never did get into my pants.
Dave was Dave. His heart condition was probably accelerated from drugs and alcohol, but it's still sad to know that he died. It is even scarier to know that he was just a couple of years older than me. Damn. Mooch and horndog aside, he was still pretty funny from time to time.
My old roommate sent me a message on the handy dandy Facebook system (that once again put us in touch--cliche, I know). Anywho . . . her message wasn't as humorous as yesterday when we giggled over a drunken photo of us at the US-Mexican border sign in 2000. See, that was one the many trips I've had where poe poe were inadvertently involved. No, not with me. Heather reminded me that the Mexican police raided the first night club we were at that night. Ha! So, yes, technically there was an incident, but it was not an incident per se. So we giggled about the drunken nature of that night, probably me more so than her because I think she had to drive my inebriated ass and there may or may not have been a moment when we had to rest at the sign to sober me up. Like I said, may or may have not been . . . Kind of like a time in Santa Fe when I may or may not have skied down the slopes on the side of my face. For the record, I was sober. Just a klutz and stupid. Yea, yea, back to the story at hand . . .
Roomie told me that Dave Diaz died. She found out in May that he passed on 8 April from a heart condition. Damn. Dave was a screwball and horndog (yes, I just used a ghetto fabulous 80s term), played sax at local bars, and was a borderline mooch. Oh hell, he was a mooch. I won't say that I've longed for him, certainly not, but he has crossed my mind several times over the years. We spent many a nights on the stoop smoking cigarettes, and we certainly can't forget that Dave had a knack for coming into my room when I was asleep and trying to get his groove on. Heh. He sure did try. Poor Dave, he never did get into my pants.
Dave was Dave. His heart condition was probably accelerated from drugs and alcohol, but it's still sad to know that he died. It is even scarier to know that he was just a couple of years older than me. Damn. Mooch and horndog aside, he was still pretty funny from time to time.
Comments
I'll just skip over the TMI personal parts.