Enrique on Logan Inn, his new column and more

Enrique Limon
- Photo by Lizeth Santos-Roberts

It’d been a while since we hung out and, this time, I wanted to pick a fellow Mexi loose cannon’s brain on what my next professional move should be. Now, I’m not one to gossip, but exciting changes are a- comin’. Changes that, like a phoenix rising from its tranny beauty-pageant ashes, will lead my Rodney Dangerfield of columns down legitimization’s way.

After some cool Extreme Couponing-style maneuvers that resulted in Daniel purchasing a Sean John cardigan at more than 70 percent off, the adventure began at the cholo equivalent of Cheers, the greener-than-the-Hulk’s-nutsack Logan Inn in Barrio Logan. Being the beacon of crazy that I am, shop talk was set aside and we ended up chatting with a 60-something custodian of a Jewish school instead.

Our “Fear and Loathing in El Barrio” chapter barely under way, we spotted a biker bar that had sprung up seemingly overnight. My eyes twirled around like pinwheels.

“We should go in,” I said. Daniel quickly reminded me what happened last time we ventured off the beaten path and ended up at a bar called Chiquibaby’s.

“I promise I won’t get any death threats; I’m not even wearing any non-S.D. team attire,” I pleaded.

Daniel shook his head. I felt extra butch, thanks to my newly sprouted summer beard, and was ready to defy him, but then I checked my attire one last time and, noticing my dandy topsiders, agreed that we shouldn’t go.

An art opening and a visit to an adult theater later, we still hadn’t gotten to the all-important convo. Dancing up a ’90s storm, we shut down El Dorado (1030 Broadway) and decided to have a meeting of the minds at Colima’s Mexican Food (2302 University Ave.). Horchata over ice and carne asada fries sizzling, we got three words into the chat before a wasted girl from Escondido sat at our table and enlightened us with tales of her thug life.

“I’ve been carrying a shank since the age of 9,” she boasted, adding that she plans to keep the tradition alive with her 3-year-old son. “I’ll probably wait till he’s outta daycare, though,” she reflected, a pool of guac nestled in her lip-piercing scar.

Munching on her burrito after reaching over and swirling it in our plate to soak up a salsa-and-sour-cream blend, her intestinal future seemed dire. “Man,” she declared, “my asshole is going to be on fire tomorrow! I’ll probably need an ice cube to cool it off.”

And hers wasn’t the only one.

Phoenix rising, my ass. Literally.