A handful of weeks ago, Alyssa and I took a trip out to the desert to cash in on a free trip to an Indian casino we’d won in a radio contest. We’ve all seen a casino bar and know that it’s nothing to write home about. Unless, of course, a tranny hooker smokes too much crack and starts waving her dick around from under her vinyl skirt (right now, I’m hoping I’m not the only one to ever witness this).
The real treasures lay in the dusty crossroads that dot the desert between bustling upper-middleclass burgs like Palm Springs and Indio. Most of the people that populate the little towns off the beaten track are a strange but intriguing breed: some are hiding from something or someone; some enamored by the stark beauty of the high deserts; and some are just too fucking weird to live in civilization. In whatever fashion you paint them, I find the Desert Rat to be an incredibility fascinating slice of humanity. They’re a hardscrabble bunch, generally living without standard comforts we take for granted. Most times, by choice – and they couldn’t be happier.
Out in the Palm Desert lies the Salton Sea.
Out in the Palm Desert lies the Salton Sea.
The largest lake in California, it’s a freak combination of nature and man’s urge to usurp it. While attempting to make an arid area fertile in the early 20th century, engineers dug canals which were eventually flooded by a swell in the Colorado River turning a salt bed into a lake. Again, man making the best of things, we tried to turn it into a resort in the ‘50s as the high salinity of the water made for great high-speed boating and recreation – a real desert playground for the family on a budget.
No surprise that we didn’t take into account the abnormal salinity and the high temperatures of the desert that would eventually lead to a toxic shithole. That is until the fish started dying by the millions…
These days, when you approach the shoreline, what appears to be a white sandy beach, is actually the bones of millions (billions?) of dead fish accumulated over the years.
These days, when you approach the shoreline, what appears to be a white sandy beach, is actually the bones of millions (billions?) of dead fish accumulated over the years.
A few miles south of the Salton Sea on US 111, you’ll come across a small community called Bombay Beach. Despite floods, drought, recession and the introduction of desert meth labs, 295 people have dug their heels in and call this place home. Most homes are deteriorating pre-fabs or mobile homes. Every resident we met, however, appears very happy here.
At 223 feet below sea level, Bombay Beach holds the distinction of being the community with the lowest elevation in America (in theory, this should mean that gravitational pull would force alcohol into the bloodstream faster as you’re closer to the earth’s core. I did not find this to be the case; however, I’m comforted to believe that even Newton faltered every now and again). Although not nearly as sad to drive through as, say, Trona or Ballarat (I assure you, reviews of the drinking establishments in these two places are forthcoming as soon as I can drag Alyssa out to the Death Valley area), it’s still a town that is down on its’ luck.
With the nearest market some 40 odd miles away, it’s important they have a few watering holes in stumbling distance to stay lubricated.
First stop: The Ski Inn
With the nearest market some 40 odd miles away, it’s important they have a few watering holes in stumbling distance to stay lubricated.
First stop: The Ski Inn
(I’m wagering that the sign used to read “AMAZON TUSSLE”. Please submit your best guess.)
The last time I passed through Bombay Beach I couldn’t get my friends to stop for a drink here even though I was scratching at the window like a dog scenting a bitch in heat. Thankfully this time we did and it was a great pleasure.
The last time I passed through Bombay Beach I couldn’t get my friends to stop for a drink here even though I was scratching at the window like a dog scenting a bitch in heat. Thankfully this time we did and it was a great pleasure.
This is a great roadhouse style establishment. Dollar bills on the wall, jukebox and ample seating. Around 10 people were there swilling liquor over the lunch hour (none under 65) and each of them incredibly friendly. The bartender was probably pushing 70 (see photo of the handsome devil chilling in the background like a pimp on holiday leave) and I felt a touch of guilt every time I ordered a drink as it took him a good 5 minutes to shuffle over and pour a cold Bud out of the tap…in a mason jar, nonetheless.
The guys sitting next to us at the bar (Dennis and his brother-in-law, Roger, who, oddly enough, own a vacation home here and were complaining about the one black youth who moved into the neighborhood claiming he is a drug addict and fingered him for the recent break-in of their mobile home costing them one vintage tube television and an all-in-one stereo system) recommended the Sunday breakfast at the VFW if we were in the area.
Now, where I’m from, the VFW is a member’s only club requiring at least one tour of duty in a jungle or desert and a handful of bullets pumped into a people that you still need to hate well after the fact. You also need to wear one of those hats with a giant patch on it. I’m speculating that this is also to get discounts at the local Golden Coral but there isn’t one of those around here for miles.
Now, where I’m from, the VFW is a member’s only club requiring at least one tour of duty in a jungle or desert and a handful of bullets pumped into a people that you still need to hate well after the fact. You also need to wear one of those hats with a giant patch on it. I’m speculating that this is also to get discounts at the local Golden Coral but there isn’t one of those around here for miles.
Anyway, with less than 300 people around, the Bombay Beach Local 801 has an open door policy, most likely in an effort to pay the rent. Dennis and Roger suggest hitting the bar at the VFW as we had no intention of passing out in the dirt and being there in the morning.
Before leaving, the bartender hands us a couple of mini Ski Inn calendars for the fridge. This place is fucking great! Word is they also have a stellar patty melt but I was saving the indigestion for later in the day.
Before leaving, the bartender hands us a couple of mini Ski Inn calendars for the fridge. This place is fucking great! Word is they also have a stellar patty melt but I was saving the indigestion for later in the day.
The VFW is located on the outskirts of town down a dusty gravel road. Look at how nice the Jeep looks parked there.
If there weren’t a few loud day-drunks (one with an eye patch) out on the porch (yes, it’s a porch here and not a patio), I could have sat there all day and listened to the wind kick sand around. Please also note the great t-shirt they have up on the wall (see below).
If there weren’t a few loud day-drunks (one with an eye patch) out on the porch (yes, it’s a porch here and not a patio), I could have sat there all day and listened to the wind kick sand around. Please also note the great t-shirt they have up on the wall (see below).
Unfortunately, we had to cut our stay short as this was only a pit stop on our way to Salvation Mountain. The irony is we got lost shortly after leaving here and never made it, deciding instead to head back to the casino before we drunkenly crashed the Jeep into a date palm.
Bombay Beach is well worth a visit should you ever find yourself anywhere near the Salton Sea.
Bombay Beach is well worth a visit should you ever find yourself anywhere near the Salton Sea.
Happiness is a tight pussy...never a truer statement.
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