My stomach aches after a long stroll downtown. I approach a window vendor for a slice of pizza after dodging various drifters demanding change. It’s too salty this time. I sigh as I toss the half eaten slice in the garbage.

I’m jumping back and forth like children playing hopscotch on a warm summer day. A couple whizzes past me on their rented electric scooter, narrowly missing me like a flight attendant beverage cart. Signs and shouts from barkers and beggars clutter my path. I’m relieved when I enter Barracuda, a sanctuary from the cold and chaos in the Red River district.

The eerily macabre soundtrack Pecos Hank is performing somehow eases my tension from the chaotic streets, like watching Tales from the Crypt on late night cable. A man grooving in front of the stage in a sparkling black disco jacket stares ahead at the singer wearing Willie Nelson’s braids and Davy Crockett’s fringed-leather pants.

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Swimwear Department at the BowiElvis Fest. Photo by Andrew Blanton


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