Folsom Friday Night

The locals have generated a nice little party town. I mean both the nice and the little parts. Folsom was a tiny prison town forever, and though now it spreads its stucco neighborhoods in all directions like an overturned barrel of nuclear waste, the old downtown core is still kind of cool. Just the one crossroads, surrounded with bars and restaurants, maybe half a dozen all told, all in buildings that predate the post-Reagan building boom (some the Civil War) hence have a modicum of character. We had Mexican food out on the second-story veranda under an overhanging tree and sucked down margaritas while talking and watching people and listening to the Harleys roar by, then had more in the bar where the "entertainment" was a couple of fat people jerking arhythmically while they played a mostly 70s party tape and played with the disco lights (maybe they were dancing), then moved down and across the street to Scarlets, a new bar wide open to the street that gets entirely packed with people from twenty one to seventy (or who look seventy, anyway, there has always been a meth-using prison family subculture here), where we hung out and bothered people half our age and laughed discreetly at people who deserved it and had our usual uncreative drinks made with vodka (her) or gin (me). It was fun! Always is. Some gal was getting painted with her home country flag and being a dork I tried to ask her if a Zimbabwean accent is any different from a South African accent but to no avail, for people rarely get it when I'm babbling off the wall shit like that, especially with a drink in my hand. It's very possible I actually said Rhodesian anyway. Here are pics taken with my brand new pocket camera for those who are into that sort of thing.