I was writing for an online dance music "magazine" down in Mexicali, MX one night for a decently top-notch DJ of the time (about 2004 I think). A buddy decided to go with me to see what the fuss was about, and we both arrived at the venue around midnight, in the middle of a farmer's front lot (about 1 acre by 3/4 acre), prior to said DJ starting his set.
The promoter stumbles up to us both and shoves cups of god-knows-what-$hitty Mexican p!ss beer in our hands, yelling expletives in Spanish for all to hear. We both shrug it off, pound the noxious brew, and my friend has a nearly-immediate gut wrenching vomitous reaction to it. 10 minutes go by, and we're decently schnockered, so we head up to the bar setup and in the most horrible Spanglish I could muster, order 2 more.
The next 4 or 5 hours are about as mysterious as the whereabouts of Jimmy Hoffa and his beloved briefcase. All I know is it's almost 7 AM, the venue ends, people are leaving, and we're 2 white boys in the middle of Hillbillyland, Mexico with no car. We end up walking the nearly 9 miles north to the border, somehow pass off as respectable American citizens at the Border Patrol station, and crash out at a McDonald's nearby. We were thrown out about an hour or 2 later by the McD manager.
I should note that it was only thanks to an extremely courteous stagehand that I didn't start trekking off without my work laptop which was still sitting on stage.
I want to find out what that brew was.