Marfa is damn far. It sits in western Texas, about three hours from any given airport. You will drive through ghost towns of six abandoned houses, truck stops where ex-felons with face tattoos stand around while the local bodega owners cannot direct you to any other destination. I always wanted to see Paris, TX and retrace Wim Wenders’ brilliant road trip. And yet, Marfa’s remote placement, desert setting of rolling hills, tumble weeds and expansive nothingness render it magical. 

Add the heavy dose of art world refinement, New York’s influence of good food that’s reassuringly overpriced and un-Texanly eatable and you get Marfa, a magical middle-of-nowhere destination where west coast hippies smoke weed with east coast art fags.

After the weekend Chinati and Judd Foundation tours where, as I did, you might run into a Brooklyn buddy, you can ride a hefty cruiser around town where the major point of reference is the blinking red light. Drinking my way through the afternoons, I met gay neo-liberal bikers from Florida, starved neo-nihilist artist/models from New York, life-loving vegan chefs from Northern Cali and even a few local punk-rockers-cum-career-waiters, or something to that effect.

And if you’re lucky like I was, you can see Joe Jack Talcum from the Dead Milkmen play a house party in the middle of town, replete with every local ever, obviously; you’ll dance your ass off to “Punk Rock Girl” because you know that’s all you really remember and he’ll still play it because Marfa has this secret way of sealing in time and making little things just make sense.  We’ll travel round the world/ just you and me/ punk rock girl. Or just stay in Marfa for a hot minute or a few months between Brooklyn and Silver Lake.