Breakfast on juevos rancheros at Cafe Norteno and they were tasty - downed it with delicious jaimaca fresca. If it were any better God would have kept it for himself. Joked with my two friend mesero´s Victor and Miguel. Phillipe was there and spun the tale of how he was frolicking in a whore house the previous night - was licking some twat and it was bitter, he says. Offered the hoochie a dollar to inspect that filthy snatch but she refused and he walked out without paying. Her insulting screams echoing down a dark windy street.
Movie day! Yes, I braved the long tiresome line at the border - an hour and a half wait - tolerated the vicious arrogance of the Customs Inspector - the Face of Our Nation - and jumped the Red Line to downtown San Diego and enjoyed some cinema.
Let me instruct you in some cinema history - a grindhouse is a shoddy movie theater of the '70s, trying to sustain itself with double bills of cheap sex-and-gore exploitation flicks, before succumbing to outright porn. For directors Quentin Tarantino and Robert Rodriguez, gritty movies of the grindhouse formed part of their essential education, and they echo vividly through Reservoir Dogs and El Mariachi, and most of the rest of their high-velocity films. And that's why they're now paying tribute with Grindhouse, a wild, wacky, bloody and hilarious tribute to such movies, complete with scratched and faded prints and missing reels. In Grindhouse, each director contributes his idea of a typical exploitation flick, surrounding each with trailers for equally tattered B-movie sagas. Since fans of these trend setting filmmakers know all too well from whence they came, they'll enjoy watching how their heroes look back fondly, one more time. Rodriguez offers Planet Terror, a horrifically over-the-top zombie fest, as the living dead lay siege to a Texas barbecue joint, until they're dealt with by a gutsy, one-legged girl (Rose McGowan) with a machine gun blasting from her stump. Tarantino finishes the double bill with Death Proof, an action flick that blends elements of the slasher and the car chase. Kurt Russell stars as a demented former stunt man who uses his early '70s Chevy Nova as a killing machine, preying on young women. I enjoyed each perverse and bloody movie on its own terms, but I must admit I liked Death Proof a bit more. Rodriguez offers relentless, high-energy action and gore, while Tarantino famously pauses his action so his characters can have strange, often hilarious — and brilliantly written — dialogue sequences. That's why Rodriguez's film seems more in tune with the 'grindhouse' concept. His movie seems right at home. Tarantino's Death Proof, however, is a bit too clever and well-written to find a home on this double bill of a movie, but that doesn't mean it isn't incredibly enjoyable. These movies have state-of-the-art car chases, are wildly entertaining, as long as you're ready for the high-intensity gore factor, the sex and the violence. The performances by Kurt Russell, Freddie Rodriguez, Zoe Bell and especially Rose McGowan (as the one-legged gun-shooter) are all very, very good. Highly Recommended.
On my way home and it was biting cold - small eddies of trash blew in closed doorways. Back in Tijuana, I was briskly walking through The Plaza when I am beckoned into Bar D.F. by my good pal Daniel - ex-waiter at Norteno who is now bar tending the joint. There is nothing like free beer, I tell you. And when it´s among good friends, it´s even sweeter. After five cerveza´s Sol I was pretty lit and the gab and jokes flew - good music on the jukebox. Damn! Can that Molotov rock! Ivan popped in - to borrow pesos - wound up drinking with me and that hottie can fucking drink! Upped the ante when Enrique shows up - strung out on goofballs - but a fun time had by all. After atime like all good things, the steel shutters slammed shut for closing and shaking hands - and passing out a few more pesos (Thank you, Ivan.) I light a Faro and disappear in a drunken haze of a cold night.