In Search of the Weird

I'll admit, at first I found Santa Fe to be a little too touristy, and this is the off-season.  But Cathy told me to give it a chance, and so, open-minded SJG that I am, occasionally, I did. Good call on my part. We got away from the plaza in search of the weird and the wonderful, and we found it.

At the farmer's market, we mingled amongst the locals, a funky group of the friendliest folks selling the weirdest sh*t imaginable. When's the last time you priced worms?  I'm happy to say I haggled with the worm seller, rather capably.  "I'll give you nine bucks for the worms and not a penny more." "No deal," the worm seller said. "Fine, be that way, I'm going elsewhere."

At this point I'd lost Cathy. She'd sauntered off to find something  more appetizing.  Bread over worms?  I can't argue with her selection.

Later, we wandered up and down Canyon Road, looking at things we had no intention of buying, but we convinced many art sellers we'd be coming back to make a purchase. That was cruel of us. We felt so guilty, we needed to drink it off last night in a piano bar, recommended by the giddy concierge gal.  "Oh, you HAVE to go to Vanessie, you'll have so much fun!" And fun, we had.  Maybe a little too much.

We really got into the musical stylings of Bob Finney.  We sang along with the locals, an eccentric bunch that included John and Winnie. Once John came up to the mic, all bets were off.  He sang a la Sinatra and Tony Bennett and was surprisingly good.

But then, Winnie, a limber gal pushing 80, presumably married to John, took things to a whole new level.  Without warning, she got up and did an interpretative dance, the likes of which the SJG has never seen. Now, if anyone appreciates such a freeform expression, it's me. But Winnie stepped over the line.  After a bit of swaying and arm flailing, Winnie of the Fishnet Stockings suddenly lifted a leg straight up to her earlobes, and gave everyone a peep show of her lady business. Quite a shocker, I must say, one that sent Cathy and me into unbridled hysterics.  "I think Winnie's going commando," Cathy whispered.  "Yikes," was all I could muster.

And then the bartender who'd served us outstanding margaritas joined in on harmonica.  I wonder what Santa Fe has in store for us today. I'm almost afraid to find out.