Rosarito Memories.

This morning something got me to thinking about a trip I took once with my good friend Dr. Jones.

We took my little truck out to Rosarito, cruising down on a random weekend to drink beers and hang around the sleazier parts of town. We wanted Cuban cigars rum, embargoed goods were easier to come by down here, but you had to make sure you got the real thing, so I took the doctor with me and we went exploring the cigar joints along the beach. There were fireworks and switchblades, pinatas and clay piggy banks with weird looking Kermit the Frogs. All the usual south of the border junk that clutters the mercados. 

Eventually the sun went down, and we needed a beer. We cruised onto the main highway, and pulled the truck into a roadside cantina. The kitchen was open, so we figured we’d get a beer and a bite, then cruise on down to Escondido for Carnivale

At the bar, there was an older biker couple, laughing over salted Coronas and making a good amount of noise. They were old grizzly people, all rough grey beard on the man, and dirty faded blonde on the woman. Dr. Jones and I sat about four stools down the bar from them and they turned to look when we sat down. 

We ordered beers, and while music blared, we talked plans for later in the day. We were to get a hotel in town, which could be tough because Carnivale basically sold out the whole town. Luckily, a cousin of mine had hooked up a room connection down there for us, and we were well taken care of. We talked about this, and I must have said something funny, because Jones laughed out loud. His laugh is a great big bellowing one, and the biker couple came over, with a weird look on their faces. They came up and made small talk, I think we may have been smoking a cigarette or something, because I remember standing around with them. 

Anyway, after a while, the older guy pulls me a little closer, and asks me, “So how do you know this guy?”

Now, don’t get me wrong, I don’t think bikers are racists or anything, but this struck me as an odd question. I started some small talk about how we were both from LA, and that we were in a band together. We were in town for the beer and the party, that’s all. 

He said “Oh, I thought you guys were filming or something. Do you work for the show too?” 

Now I was really confused. Jones was talking with the biker’s old lady, having a roadside beer on this beautiful Mexican night. 

The biker got in close again and said, “That’s the guy from the mythbusters, right?” and nodded in Jones’ direction. 

I laughed and said no, you have him confused for Jamie Hyneman, but I thought it was hilarious, so I laughed. Now, this was a big burly old biker man, and I didn’t want a ny trouble, but her grabbed me by the arm and pulled me over to his old lady, and his friend came rushing out of the bar. I was a little taken back by the whole thing, visions of spending the night in a mexican jail cell with hung over bikers didn’t sound like any party I signed up for, but then the biker spoke. 

“This guys says it’s not him.” 

The whole group exploded in incredulity. They were sure it was him, and nothing I could say could convince them otherwise. They even asked where the “Other one” was, presumably Adam Savage. It didn’t help that Ian was smoking a pipe at the time, and wearing a flat cap. He really did look like Hyneman, and the group thought I was trying to help Jones keep his cover from being blown. Things got all secretive and hush hush as we all walked back in to our bar stools. The bikers were sure they were a part of a privileged bunch. I bet they still tell people to this day, about the time they partied with Jamie Hyneman down in Mexico way. 


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