(This is the first segment in a two-part series on the Funhog’s travels to the OK Corral. Check next week for what really happened.) I counted 43 dead things on the road to Tombstone, Arizona — fitting, more or less, for a town that is mostly famous for the people who died there.
I'd been paid a hefty sum by a well-known travel magazine to cover, among other things, the 118th anniversary of the gunfight at the OK Corral — the bloodiest, most famous shoot-out in the storied history of the Wild West. The magazine unwisely authorized me to hire a photographer as well, so I brought along Bottomfeeder, who didn't know a Nikon from Nike, but was the only person willing to keep me company on the long drive from Santa Monica to Arizona and back. I figured I’d double-bill the magazine somewhere along the line and use the extra cash to purchase some professional photos of Tombstone. Usually, the local chamber would give us something for free anyway.
Every year people from all walks of life descend upon “the town too tough to die” to celebrate the infamous carnage at the Helldorado Festival. As I sat alone in Johnny Ringo’s Saloon scribbling notes, the town was abuzz, making last-minute preparations for what is Tombstone’s biggest moneymaking weekend of the year.
We had “descended” from the long way around. We’d rented a puke-green Neon at LAX, and I was chatting up the rental girl while Bottomfeeder put our things into the car. Maybe I could have gotten upgraded to a red or white Neon, but the option faded when focus shifted to phone numbers.
At the car, Bottomfeeder already had the U.S. Atlas out on the hood.
“How long you got to get to this OK thing?” he asked.
“What the hell do you care?” “I was just thinking, we might swing down into Mexico. I’ve never been.”
Well, come to think of it, me neither. And you know that the allure of unlimited mileage rental cars is strong.
“We can’t take a U.S. rental car into Mexico. At least not legally. At least not in MY name,” I suggested.
“We’ll go to Nogales. Right here. My cousin went there once. Said you just park at the border and walk in. Then, look, right on up to the Tombstone.”
Sometimes discussing a roadtrip once the map is unfolded is like making a sexual decision after the condom is unrolled.
Next thing I knew, I was trying to shake off the experience we had south of the border, and figure out what amounted to a reluctant Legendary Event theme park.
“It’s three days of getting drunk, passing out, waking up and starting all over again,” said Cathy the bartender, sliding another bourbon across the bar. “By Sunday, most of the people who were fairly good-looking when they got here look at least a decade older.”
Bottomfeeder, who was currently passed out in the puke-green Neon told me as much when we pulled into town. There wasn’t much action in Ringo’s, so I decided it was a good time to get some food in me. I quickly settled up with Cathy, tipped like a man who might need a friend in the bar business sometime soon, and took to the streets.
Nellie Cashman’s Restaurant, established in 1882, is Tombstone’s oldest and most popular eatery. I showed up with pot roast on my mind and a credit card in my pocket, only to find a “closed” sign hanging in the window.
“I would have been open, but the waiter got drunk,” said an older, fleshy woman seated on a bench by the front door. She turned out to be the owner.
“Where’s a good place to eat around here?” I asked her.
“Just my place,” she said, gesturing behind her, “and I'm closed.”
“Alright then, where’s a good place to get drunk?”
She looked at me and smiled. “Anywhere's a good place to get drunk.”
Back at Johnny Ringo’s, my new best friend Cathy reminisced about the good-old days in Tombstone — not the days of Wyatt Earp and the Cowboys, mind you; Cathy missed the freewheeling 1970s, when Helldorado truly lived up to its name.
“It’s not like it used to be,” she sighed. “Now with the liquor control, and the drinking and driving laws, it's a real pain in the ass. They’ve got roadblocks scheduled this weekend all the way out to Douglas, Benson and Sierra Vista.
“I don’t condone drinking and driving,” she told me, “but, hell, a person can't have a couple of beers anymore without worrying about getting stopped by the cops.”
Looking around the bar full of weathered wranglers and hard-line vagrants, I surmised that a lot of locals were upset about authorities cracking down on lawlessness during Helldorado. The prevailing mood in the place suggested that things could turn ugly at the drop of a ten-gallon hat. I hunkered down on my stool and ordered a shot of Jameson, anticipating trouble.
“The cops never pay attention to stuff that goes on all year long, but then the big weekend comes and they hound everybody — it ain’t right,” said Cathy.
“Hell no, it ain’t!” I cackled a bit too loudly, defending reckless boozing with all the conviction one would expect from a guy who’d pounded approximately seven drinks in just under an hour. Scared, starving, and loaded, I started scribbling furiously in my notepad.
And what happened next? I met Daniel Austin — the guy who told me, “Today is the first day of the rest of your life.” (Dan Dunn is a Santa Monica resident and writes for Warner Bros. Online. For more FunHog fun, check out www.thefun-hog.com.)
Originally published in the Santa Monica Daily Press print edition on April 29, 2002. Read the original PDF.