A Walter Mitty Moment

   Wal·ter Mit·ty (wôl t r m  t ). n. An ordinary, often ineffectual person who indulges in fantastic daydreams of personal triumphs.

The other day I was sitting in “Ballena Azul” , our ’91 Toyota Previa van, while Gail crossed the street to the bus station to pick up a schedule. I was staring out the window, with nothing particular on my mind when I saw this.

Mitty Motorhead Madness

A few years back we’d watched the documentary, “Dust To Glory” (2005) which tells the story of the madmen and their machines who drive in the annual Baja 1000 Road Race. Here’s a youtube link to the trailer:  http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_B6N-jXoFvM

It’s exhilarating to watch these hyped up machines and drivers catching air at the crest of a hill and soaring over some Mexican kids playing on the side of the road, dust swirling everywhere, visibility limited, adrenaline unlimited. As I stared at the vehicle I imagined myself driving “Ballena Azul” through those seemingly endless, unpredictable miles, day and night, squinting my eyes and shaking my head back and forth to ward off fatigue, spitting feathers out of my mouth from the roadrunner I’d smashed a few miles back. Is that a goat up ahead, Oh My God…then I snapped back to reality. I swivelled my head around to look at the intersection behind me and this is what I saw.

The Wild Bunch was definitely in town. Although Gail thinks I drive like these guys, I really don’t. I avoid danger and pain like the plague. But I don’t mind vicariously riding on the wild side. When we drive the length of Baja we always stop at Beans And Rice, one of the places where these wonderful maniacs hang out. I stare in admiration at all the stickers from the drivers sponsors, the photographs of the men and machines that fill every square inch of space on the restaurant and bar walls.

If I can’t drive like these guys I can at least eat like them. And, by golly, all this fantasy excitement had me hungry for some manly food, dammit. And where else does one get manly food, manly beer, and manly decor, but “Shut Up Frank’s”, a manly tradition since I don’t know when. Last year when we were here Frank’s was closed for renovation the whole time. Something about new owners. It was time for the “Frank” experience, and we were less than a block

What Happens At Frank's Stays At Frank's. Shut The F**k Up!

away. It took a while for me to convince Gail that it was “Frank” time, till I reminded her of the Happy Hour Special I’d read about in one of the tourist rags: a hamburger, fries, and a pint of Modelo Negro (her new favorite) for only 50 pesos. The combination of thrift and drinkability was too much for her to resist and before you could say “#**+ing s@#t” we were comfortably ensconced at a table watching surf movies and sports talk and waiting for our burgers.

Although the millions of names scrawled on the walls had mostly been painted over much of the ambiance de Frank remained, framed pictures of Julio Cesar Chavez, Muhammad Ali, Frank Sinatra, James Dean and other manly men were still in evidence, along with requisite amounts of blood, surf, and leather. Fortunately the burgers were neither leathery or bloody, actually more like steak sandwiches, served with sauteed onions, red peppers, lettuce and tomato, they were quite good, the fries were great. The beer was cold, dark and strong, we got to watch some happy drunks and surf movies. What more could you ask for? Well, maybe Marilyn.

Marilyn and Marlin. Marlon was probably there somewhere but I couldn't find him.