On the U.S.... The state of the nation is that it is a nation of the State, with the State being an essentially non-governed entity that moves through time of its own accord. The State was initially created with a government, by and for the people, but the government no longer runs the State. Granted, the people still elect representatives to this government, but the power of those representatives has been eclipsed by the momentous and independent forward roll of the State in its own dimension. Witness:
1. When Barack Obama was elected President, there was great excitement and "hope." Within days, he began to fulfill one of his campaign promises - presumably one of the reasons for excitement - to close the Guantanamo Bay detention camp in Cuba. Four months later, the U.S. Senate passes an amendment to block the funding of prisoner transferral out of Guantanamo, while congressional leaders the country over use the NIMBY argument to prevent prisoner transferral to any of the "legit" maximum security prisons in their states. The President alone cannot solve our problems. Especially when he or she gets vetoed by the rest of the elected leaders. A president can make things worse on his or her own, but often needs the rest of the State to help him or her make things better.
2. On May 26, Obama nominated Sonia Sotomayor to the U.S. Supreme Court - because of her qualifications, and presumably, to appeal to his growing Hispanic constituency, as she would be the court's first Hispanic Justice. While it may please many Puerto Ricans, this nomination, a politically-savvy apologia, actually obscures the position of other Puerto Ricans who want complete independence from the U.S. They don't want one of their own in the courts, because they don't want the courts at all. For those Puerto Ricans interested in complete freedom from colonialism, this nomination will not help their cause.
3. Last night, unless something catastrophic happened, the Texas Young Professionals hosted a reception at Threadgill's in Austin, at $50 a head, to raise money for the Al Franken Recount Fund. This may seem like satire, but I'm completely serious on all acounts. What the fuck? With all the possible causes that could benefit greatly from fundraising - food banks, natural disaster relief, homelessness, poverty due to war, AIDS research, cancer treatment, MS, equal-opportunity education, recycling, etc., et al - these assholes are wasting their happy hour to send money up north so that other poor suckers can count more ballots? People, this is not reality. This is a cruel masquerade designed to make you sink deeper and further back, into fantasy, months and months after an election, until you find yourself stuck in a sketch on Saturday Night Live in the late 1980s. Here's an idea for a fundraising cause - one that should be supported after the abovementioned causes and many others - but before the Al Franken Recount Fund:
Phil was telling me about a fountain in Spain with a perpetual flow of wine. We were walking around UT the other night at dusk, passing one of the great geyser fountains found on campus, when the setting sun hit just right, and we imagined a magnificent fountain of Pinot grigio, to swim and play in. Please, if nothing else, donate your money to the Bacchanalian Wine Fountain Fund. We'll even set it up in Minnesota, for just one night, and I believe the inhabitants of that state will gain much more in general quality of life than they ever would have by counting pieces of paper one more time.
Ballots or sheep... what's the difference?
Saturday, May 30, 2009
Tuesday, May 26, 2009
On It Omelet
On Movies
Went to Weird Wednesday last week to see Coffy, first time for me. An awesome movie, one of the best blaxploitation films ever (Truck Turner is right up there as well), featuring Pam Grier as a nurse who takes revenge on all those who wronged her sister, mostly via the drug trade. Grier is a remarkable actress with a strong and demanding screen presence, but able to hit a range of emotions (vulnerability, humor, etc.). Director Jack Hill is a genius for a) discovering Grier (she apparently was a secretary at one of Roger Corman's studios, when Hill noticed her and put her in The Big Doll House) and b) producing such clever and poignant celluloid as Coffy. (An early point in the flick which set the mood: Coffy seduces a sleazy pusher, who tells his junky driver to go back to the apartment, and he can have "leftovers." Driver says, "No man, I just wanna get high and watch!") So it's funny, intense, sexy, action-packed, and quite enthralling. But the key is that it's also very subversive. Coffy starts by taking on the drug dealers, but ends up taking on almost everybody, because they're all corrupt. Without spoiling too much, they're all bad tomatoes - the dealers, the cops, the pimps, the politicians, the gangsters - of all races. The message here is that the system itself is at fault, because everyone really only cares about one color: green. I don't know if it's the decade (1970s), the genre, or the studio, but they don't make 'em like this anymore. Now you have Bruce Willis and a bunch of sell-out actors helping NASA stop a meteor, while Will Smith and Martin Lawrence don badges to heroically recover stolen drugs. Dear Michael Bay and the rest of Hollywood, you are the real pushers and pimps. Stop trying to poison my mind by dealing your trash on my streets. Otherwise, Coffy will stab you in the neck with a hairpin, and I will throw a salad on your head.
On Music
To be honest, I forgot what I was going to say here. Should've written it down. Since I know the moment when the thought occurred, I'll have to share that as the next best thing. Chaos in Tejas, an awesome multi-venue punk festival, took place in Austin over the weekend. I bought a ticket way back for the Friday Cock Sparrer show, their first time ever here, and one of only two shows in the U.S. Lots of other folks had the same idea, and it sold out awhile ago. Of course, a large chunk of these folks were skinheads, and knowing this, I was very overly cautious in preparing for the show. No soccer jerseys, no band T-shirts, no trendy jeans... nothing that could potentially provoke anyone. Of course these were ridiculous precautions; I don't even think there was a fight. Sparrer was incredible, playing every song we could've hoped for, and I was pleasantly surprised by the opening band - the Hex Dispensers, a very catchy local group - and the Brutal Knights, an intense, trashy, and rocking band from Toronto. This was where my thought occurred, and the memory of the band is all that remains. Screw. And now I'm done with style, with fashion altogether. Moving on... there was a wild after-party show on the Lamar footbridge. Imagine my surprise to show up (with other Boston visitors) and hear a band (Career Suicide) blasting out from a generator, while hundreds of punks drink beer and run around. At 3:30 in the morning. No cops in sight. I have no idea how this was pulled off, but the night raged on....
On the beat, on the bus, on the street
Saturday was a wonderful day that included a get-together at ours for Tania's birthday, a walk along the East Side section of the river (a quite amazing post-apocalyptic under-highway-bridge scene transforms quickly into the lush serenity of trees and joggers' footpaths), a playground, the Creekside, and a not-so-cool after hours club. Two very late nights in a row made it difficult to get up on Sunday, but the show must go on. Phil came over for leftover quiche and Mexican coffee, and we're off. Caught up with the #5 bus - bus drivers are really damn cool here; they will actually stop the bus after a stop to wait for you to run and catch up (has happened to me a half a dozen times already), whereas in Boston, if you're not jabbing your foot in the door as it opens, you're done for - and went downtown to the Mohawk for a free show/wedding reception. Caught the second half of the Altars, a good, hard-edged, fast punk band. Out back, and up on a veranda, we dove onto comfortable old (leather?) couches. I bought a Tecate with lime, took some sips, took the tequila out of Phil's bag, and made a poor man's Mexican Iced Tea. Saw the Hex Dispensers again, and they were great again. Out on the relatively barren Sunday afternoon streets, we got a tip about a couple of free shows up on North Loop. Into a Red River bar, we asked the bartender, drinking some scary-looking concoction, for directions. He gave 'em to us, but perhaps we wished he hadn't. We caught a bus up north, walked around, asked more directions from a nice dude on the street, and realized the drunken bartender had steered us well off course. No matter, a good walk. Famished, we arrived at The Parlor. Show was over, but the spectacle was not. Tons of punks hanging out on the street, drinking beers, and chatting it up. Into the convenience store to wait in line and get my supper: a packaged bear claw and a Mickey's tallboy, all for the low price of $2.71. Back to the street to catch up with (for the third day in a row) Sela and Dominick and some of the other folks from Boston. Good good. Into Monkeywrench, the recently discovered anarchist bookstore, for a look-see. As the rain came down, the punks washed away. We bid adieu to Sela and company, and went to the #7 bus stop. Phil played the harmonica while I slurped down a High Life and stared at the post-deluge sky: relatively clear, light blue, with violet ovalries splattering a horizon. And back.
On the bus.
Went to Weird Wednesday last week to see Coffy, first time for me. An awesome movie, one of the best blaxploitation films ever (Truck Turner is right up there as well), featuring Pam Grier as a nurse who takes revenge on all those who wronged her sister, mostly via the drug trade. Grier is a remarkable actress with a strong and demanding screen presence, but able to hit a range of emotions (vulnerability, humor, etc.). Director Jack Hill is a genius for a) discovering Grier (she apparently was a secretary at one of Roger Corman's studios, when Hill noticed her and put her in The Big Doll House) and b) producing such clever and poignant celluloid as Coffy. (An early point in the flick which set the mood: Coffy seduces a sleazy pusher, who tells his junky driver to go back to the apartment, and he can have "leftovers." Driver says, "No man, I just wanna get high and watch!") So it's funny, intense, sexy, action-packed, and quite enthralling. But the key is that it's also very subversive. Coffy starts by taking on the drug dealers, but ends up taking on almost everybody, because they're all corrupt. Without spoiling too much, they're all bad tomatoes - the dealers, the cops, the pimps, the politicians, the gangsters - of all races. The message here is that the system itself is at fault, because everyone really only cares about one color: green. I don't know if it's the decade (1970s), the genre, or the studio, but they don't make 'em like this anymore. Now you have Bruce Willis and a bunch of sell-out actors helping NASA stop a meteor, while Will Smith and Martin Lawrence don badges to heroically recover stolen drugs. Dear Michael Bay and the rest of Hollywood, you are the real pushers and pimps. Stop trying to poison my mind by dealing your trash on my streets. Otherwise, Coffy will stab you in the neck with a hairpin, and I will throw a salad on your head.
On Music
To be honest, I forgot what I was going to say here. Should've written it down. Since I know the moment when the thought occurred, I'll have to share that as the next best thing. Chaos in Tejas, an awesome multi-venue punk festival, took place in Austin over the weekend. I bought a ticket way back for the Friday Cock Sparrer show, their first time ever here, and one of only two shows in the U.S. Lots of other folks had the same idea, and it sold out awhile ago. Of course, a large chunk of these folks were skinheads, and knowing this, I was very overly cautious in preparing for the show. No soccer jerseys, no band T-shirts, no trendy jeans... nothing that could potentially provoke anyone. Of course these were ridiculous precautions; I don't even think there was a fight. Sparrer was incredible, playing every song we could've hoped for, and I was pleasantly surprised by the opening band - the Hex Dispensers, a very catchy local group - and the Brutal Knights, an intense, trashy, and rocking band from Toronto. This was where my thought occurred, and the memory of the band is all that remains. Screw. And now I'm done with style, with fashion altogether. Moving on... there was a wild after-party show on the Lamar footbridge. Imagine my surprise to show up (with other Boston visitors) and hear a band (Career Suicide) blasting out from a generator, while hundreds of punks drink beer and run around. At 3:30 in the morning. No cops in sight. I have no idea how this was pulled off, but the night raged on....
On the beat, on the bus, on the street
Saturday was a wonderful day that included a get-together at ours for Tania's birthday, a walk along the East Side section of the river (a quite amazing post-apocalyptic under-highway-bridge scene transforms quickly into the lush serenity of trees and joggers' footpaths), a playground, the Creekside, and a not-so-cool after hours club. Two very late nights in a row made it difficult to get up on Sunday, but the show must go on. Phil came over for leftover quiche and Mexican coffee, and we're off. Caught up with the #5 bus - bus drivers are really damn cool here; they will actually stop the bus after a stop to wait for you to run and catch up (has happened to me a half a dozen times already), whereas in Boston, if you're not jabbing your foot in the door as it opens, you're done for - and went downtown to the Mohawk for a free show/wedding reception. Caught the second half of the Altars, a good, hard-edged, fast punk band. Out back, and up on a veranda, we dove onto comfortable old (leather?) couches. I bought a Tecate with lime, took some sips, took the tequila out of Phil's bag, and made a poor man's Mexican Iced Tea. Saw the Hex Dispensers again, and they were great again. Out on the relatively barren Sunday afternoon streets, we got a tip about a couple of free shows up on North Loop. Into a Red River bar, we asked the bartender, drinking some scary-looking concoction, for directions. He gave 'em to us, but perhaps we wished he hadn't. We caught a bus up north, walked around, asked more directions from a nice dude on the street, and realized the drunken bartender had steered us well off course. No matter, a good walk. Famished, we arrived at The Parlor. Show was over, but the spectacle was not. Tons of punks hanging out on the street, drinking beers, and chatting it up. Into the convenience store to wait in line and get my supper: a packaged bear claw and a Mickey's tallboy, all for the low price of $2.71. Back to the street to catch up with (for the third day in a row) Sela and Dominick and some of the other folks from Boston. Good good. Into Monkeywrench, the recently discovered anarchist bookstore, for a look-see. As the rain came down, the punks washed away. We bid adieu to Sela and company, and went to the #7 bus stop. Phil played the harmonica while I slurped down a High Life and stared at the post-deluge sky: relatively clear, light blue, with violet ovalries splattering a horizon. And back.
On the bus.
Tuesday, May 19, 2009
Really deep in the heart
Buddy and Nate came down to visit this past weekend. For three days, we ate nothing but tacos, BBQ, and pizza. A great weekend. Friday was a marathon day that started at the Trailer Park Eatery and ended at Hoboken Pie. (Perhaps the only really inharmonious moment of the weekend revolved around our not seeing eye to eye on the merits of Hoboken slices.) Sunday was the capitol building, UT campus, and a night spent at the Scoot Inn - Skee-ball, Ruby's BBQ, Celtics game, and beer. Saturday... after waiting for the rain to let up, listening to Asia and Boston tapes, a late breakfast at Polvo's (including my horrible idea to have a Blood Mary-with-beer cocktail), a walk and round at Doc's, and some darts, we went deep in the heart of Texas. Really deep. For four hours on Saturday night, in fact, we were submerged. Be still, beating heart. I-183 is the pulmonary vein, Laura and Phil's Jeep the vessel, and the Shining Moon Saloon the left atrium. Thump thump.
The Saloon hangs off the back of a gas station. When we arrive, everything is dark from the outside, except for the "open" sign. Walking in, we beeline for the front, to meet Laura's friend Mindy, who's watching her friend's band, the band we're here to see. Had there not been a band playing, I would've expected the record to skip to a stop, the taps to close, and grim faces pointed in the direction of us, the northern invaders. Soon to find out, I was dead wrong.
I believe the first indication was the bottles of vodka in the middle of every table. The Shining Moon Saloon has no liquor license, so they only serve beer and wine, so people can bring their own liquor. Then they buy cranberry juice at the bar to mix it with. (I'm not sure if this is always the case; Saturday night may have been a special occasion.) But it gets better. We go to the bar to get beers, and hopefully food. Turns out they've stopped serving, but... they have a free "buffet" up near the stage. Hell yes, I'll get some of that. (I would later find out that this was more of a potluck than a buffet, but there was plenty of food, and they seemed happy to share.) First course for me is chicken casserole and two meatballs. This stuff tastes so good, especially free. Wait a while, more food comes, and course number two is beef taco and more meatballs. There are store-bought veggie and dip platters, but they haven't been opened yet. I fully expected to pay a cover, and not only did we not have to, but we got dinner too. Pat the head, rub the tummy.
Another big bonus was the people. Very nice, very cool, very real. One girl even invited us all to hang out at her place after the bar closed. One of the bartenders, a slightly older guy who also turned out to be genial, wore a shirt that read, "The only job I need is a blowjob." We played pool against a couple of guys - one a bit of a shark, but cool about it; the other... he had fallen off a ladder six weeks prior. Had been laid up on the couch, popping pain pills and drinking vodka, and didn't remember much of the past six weeks. This was his first night back out. And he played okay, all things considered. Like a trooper. The shark left lit cigarettes hanging off the pool table between shots. (Another thing: I don't like smoking in bars, or anywhere indoors, because it makes you and your clothes smell bad, it's unhealthy, etc. But I like the fact that everybody was smoking here, since I was under the impression that it's outlawed in Austin.) The band, who I dug, played lots of stuff, not just country, though I was so happy to hear "Help Me Make it Through the Night." Then there was Tripod, who "just can't help it," he likes the ladies. I'll leave it at that. Point being, my preconception of being unwelcome as outsiders, perhaps chased out by shotguns or bowie knives, was turned on its head by a group of people genuinely inviting and cool.
Buddy had the impression that when you come to Texas, if you start singing "Deep in the Heart of Texas" in a public space, everyone will join in. Join in:
The stars at night, are big and bright,
Deep in the heart of Texas
The Shining Moon lights up the Saloon,
Deep in the heart of Texas
Jello-O shots with wine taste so fine....
The Saloon hangs off the back of a gas station. When we arrive, everything is dark from the outside, except for the "open" sign. Walking in, we beeline for the front, to meet Laura's friend Mindy, who's watching her friend's band, the band we're here to see. Had there not been a band playing, I would've expected the record to skip to a stop, the taps to close, and grim faces pointed in the direction of us, the northern invaders. Soon to find out, I was dead wrong.
I believe the first indication was the bottles of vodka in the middle of every table. The Shining Moon Saloon has no liquor license, so they only serve beer and wine, so people can bring their own liquor. Then they buy cranberry juice at the bar to mix it with. (I'm not sure if this is always the case; Saturday night may have been a special occasion.) But it gets better. We go to the bar to get beers, and hopefully food. Turns out they've stopped serving, but... they have a free "buffet" up near the stage. Hell yes, I'll get some of that. (I would later find out that this was more of a potluck than a buffet, but there was plenty of food, and they seemed happy to share.) First course for me is chicken casserole and two meatballs. This stuff tastes so good, especially free. Wait a while, more food comes, and course number two is beef taco and more meatballs. There are store-bought veggie and dip platters, but they haven't been opened yet. I fully expected to pay a cover, and not only did we not have to, but we got dinner too. Pat the head, rub the tummy.
Another big bonus was the people. Very nice, very cool, very real. One girl even invited us all to hang out at her place after the bar closed. One of the bartenders, a slightly older guy who also turned out to be genial, wore a shirt that read, "The only job I need is a blowjob." We played pool against a couple of guys - one a bit of a shark, but cool about it; the other... he had fallen off a ladder six weeks prior. Had been laid up on the couch, popping pain pills and drinking vodka, and didn't remember much of the past six weeks. This was his first night back out. And he played okay, all things considered. Like a trooper. The shark left lit cigarettes hanging off the pool table between shots. (Another thing: I don't like smoking in bars, or anywhere indoors, because it makes you and your clothes smell bad, it's unhealthy, etc. But I like the fact that everybody was smoking here, since I was under the impression that it's outlawed in Austin.) The band, who I dug, played lots of stuff, not just country, though I was so happy to hear "Help Me Make it Through the Night." Then there was Tripod, who "just can't help it," he likes the ladies. I'll leave it at that. Point being, my preconception of being unwelcome as outsiders, perhaps chased out by shotguns or bowie knives, was turned on its head by a group of people genuinely inviting and cool.
Buddy had the impression that when you come to Texas, if you start singing "Deep in the Heart of Texas" in a public space, everyone will join in. Join in:
The stars at night, are big and bright,
Deep in the heart of Texas
The Shining Moon lights up the Saloon,
Deep in the heart of Texas
Jello-O shots with wine taste so fine....
Wednesday, May 6, 2009
Til the end part II: 2 Days East
(Part I, the intro to the East Side, is below.)
4/22/09
Went over to Phil and Laura's for some chili. Chili was the reason I left the house, and it was the only plan we had. But the sweet and sour pungency of the Argentinean white wine suggested a further course of events. We came up with three choices: 6th Street (Jackalope (which is very cool), etc.), the Horseshoe Lounge (the closest bar to my place, and they have table-top shuffleboard), or the East Side. Based on recent experience, we had a good feeling - and went with - the East Side.
First to the bar that's housed in the Motel Vegas. In fact, it's the other way around: the huge bar houses and surrounds the little Motel. Phil and I had stopped for a beer and some cards in the outdoor area on the previous Saturday afternoon, and felt right at home. We were talking about renting a room some night for a little party (it would probably cost 50 bucks altogether, based on the exterior; believe me), but then we realized it's probably more of a short-term housing situation. Or a flophouse. Ordered beers in English, and that's as far as the bartender-patron interaction went for us. Cruz Azul was playing Atlante on TV, but I think this is a Guadalajara club bar, so no one gave a shit anyway. Everyone else was playing foosball. We decided to move on.
Tried to go to Rabbit's, but it was closed, at 10:30. The bartender had told me they some times close early on weeknights, but that's pretty early. So let's skip the formalities and just go up to the Long Branch. Took Comal from E. 6th up to 11th, and by god if we didn't go through a whole suburban town on our way. I know from previous experience that E. 12th is a bit sketchy (see my post on "SXSW End", from March), especially at night, but 11th is all picket fences and rose gardens. Felt like I was walking by my grandparents' old house in New Hampshire. At Long Branch, we heard a really good Alice Cooper song ("Desperado," I think), and then Laura played a few. Met the bartender from the Scoot, who I think works every single night in one of the two places. Laura has this thing where she does half shots of tequila ("One shot, two glasses please"), which is a good idea in theory, but can be otherwise in practice. We split a couple of those.
The initial reason we hadn't gone to the Scoot to practice Skee-ball (we would have the following week off, so we needed to stay in shape) was the poetry slam happening there this Wednesday evening - we would've been too much noise. But figuring it must be over now, we made our way down Navasota. We had been feeling athletic and adventurous all evening, so we tried climbing up a signpost somewhere around 9th and Navasota. That's why my arm was all scraped up. Phil actually made it up. Then I got ahead of them, on an embankement, and ambushed Laura, for some reason. Kind of an accident, but that's why I had scratches on my legs. At the Scoot, we were right: poetry was done, we were the only ones inside. So, several rounds of Skee-ball (including a couple going for "hundos" (aiming for the 100 circles)), and Queen on the jukebox.
The requisite stop at Wendy's (Phil and I have gotten into splitting chicken nuggets and cola), and back to theirs for a great, long, and philosophical conversation spurred by an essay Phil had writtten earlier in the day. One of those times I wish I'd taken notes, but forgot. I had a wonderful, long walk home. Put the Ipod on shuffle, and all these great songs triggered random memories. The cloudy sky illuminated by city lights produced a haunting, transparent effect, like a subtle swiss cheese. I can pick my side streets off South Congress, but Annie is the best one to smell the flowers. Honey blossoms in April in Austin - nothing finer. It would only be slight hyperbole to say that I was skipping up to my front door. Feeling stellar.
Epilogue, 4/23/09
Phil and I had decided the night before that if we were both up for it, we'd hit the Java Garden, a $6 Chinese buffet we'd been talking about for a month, off of Riverside, East of their place. I called him at noon, had a banana and coffee, we each went for a run, and then went for it. Four courses did the trick. I told Phil about my Dad's notion that if it takes 20 minutes for the food to reach your brain and tell you you're full, you should pack as much into those 20 minutes as possible. But we were slow, and only got one course in during the initial 20. I developed a new system for Chinese buffets: one crab rangoon with each course. Even dessert. It may not be a good one, but it's a system; order and tradition are important to the gastronome. And we hobbled, slowly, out to the car, with feet dragging and stomachs full and burning. I didn't eat again until 10pm. And that was practically force-feeding.
4/25/09
Had planned to make this a two-day entry, but it's gotten so exceedingly long, that I'll be brief: had heard about an urban/guerrilla art show on E. 3rd (I think) and Chicon, so Tania and I decided to check it out. We met downtown, and were gonna grab a drink first, but just kept walking throughout the streets below E. 6th. There's an awesome mini stage set-up (even with what seem like stripper poles) that's made of all these little mirrors, outside of a gallery on E. 5th. The show we went to ("This is Urban") was pretty cool. Pretty mellow too. I was expecting a bit more of a spectacle/party, to be honest. But beyond the gallery was a softball park, where everyone had gathered, with picnics and beer, to watch a couple of adult-league teams face off. We stayed for awhile, enjoying being spectators in a spectator sport. Then an al pastor taco at Club Primos (there is actually a club, but when you're walking up the street, it looks like the "club" is just the taco wagon out front; I always get funny visions of a disco ball and people dancing shoulder to shoulder inside this little wagon). Then some scouting for future East Side jaunts, and that's it. Back to our home, south of the river. A world away.
4/22/09
Went over to Phil and Laura's for some chili. Chili was the reason I left the house, and it was the only plan we had. But the sweet and sour pungency of the Argentinean white wine suggested a further course of events. We came up with three choices: 6th Street (Jackalope (which is very cool), etc.), the Horseshoe Lounge (the closest bar to my place, and they have table-top shuffleboard), or the East Side. Based on recent experience, we had a good feeling - and went with - the East Side.
First to the bar that's housed in the Motel Vegas. In fact, it's the other way around: the huge bar houses and surrounds the little Motel. Phil and I had stopped for a beer and some cards in the outdoor area on the previous Saturday afternoon, and felt right at home. We were talking about renting a room some night for a little party (it would probably cost 50 bucks altogether, based on the exterior; believe me), but then we realized it's probably more of a short-term housing situation. Or a flophouse. Ordered beers in English, and that's as far as the bartender-patron interaction went for us. Cruz Azul was playing Atlante on TV, but I think this is a Guadalajara club bar, so no one gave a shit anyway. Everyone else was playing foosball. We decided to move on.
Tried to go to Rabbit's, but it was closed, at 10:30. The bartender had told me they some times close early on weeknights, but that's pretty early. So let's skip the formalities and just go up to the Long Branch. Took Comal from E. 6th up to 11th, and by god if we didn't go through a whole suburban town on our way. I know from previous experience that E. 12th is a bit sketchy (see my post on "SXSW End", from March), especially at night, but 11th is all picket fences and rose gardens. Felt like I was walking by my grandparents' old house in New Hampshire. At Long Branch, we heard a really good Alice Cooper song ("Desperado," I think), and then Laura played a few. Met the bartender from the Scoot, who I think works every single night in one of the two places. Laura has this thing where she does half shots of tequila ("One shot, two glasses please"), which is a good idea in theory, but can be otherwise in practice. We split a couple of those.
The initial reason we hadn't gone to the Scoot to practice Skee-ball (we would have the following week off, so we needed to stay in shape) was the poetry slam happening there this Wednesday evening - we would've been too much noise. But figuring it must be over now, we made our way down Navasota. We had been feeling athletic and adventurous all evening, so we tried climbing up a signpost somewhere around 9th and Navasota. That's why my arm was all scraped up. Phil actually made it up. Then I got ahead of them, on an embankement, and ambushed Laura, for some reason. Kind of an accident, but that's why I had scratches on my legs. At the Scoot, we were right: poetry was done, we were the only ones inside. So, several rounds of Skee-ball (including a couple going for "hundos" (aiming for the 100 circles)), and Queen on the jukebox.
The requisite stop at Wendy's (Phil and I have gotten into splitting chicken nuggets and cola), and back to theirs for a great, long, and philosophical conversation spurred by an essay Phil had writtten earlier in the day. One of those times I wish I'd taken notes, but forgot. I had a wonderful, long walk home. Put the Ipod on shuffle, and all these great songs triggered random memories. The cloudy sky illuminated by city lights produced a haunting, transparent effect, like a subtle swiss cheese. I can pick my side streets off South Congress, but Annie is the best one to smell the flowers. Honey blossoms in April in Austin - nothing finer. It would only be slight hyperbole to say that I was skipping up to my front door. Feeling stellar.
Epilogue, 4/23/09
Phil and I had decided the night before that if we were both up for it, we'd hit the Java Garden, a $6 Chinese buffet we'd been talking about for a month, off of Riverside, East of their place. I called him at noon, had a banana and coffee, we each went for a run, and then went for it. Four courses did the trick. I told Phil about my Dad's notion that if it takes 20 minutes for the food to reach your brain and tell you you're full, you should pack as much into those 20 minutes as possible. But we were slow, and only got one course in during the initial 20. I developed a new system for Chinese buffets: one crab rangoon with each course. Even dessert. It may not be a good one, but it's a system; order and tradition are important to the gastronome. And we hobbled, slowly, out to the car, with feet dragging and stomachs full and burning. I didn't eat again until 10pm. And that was practically force-feeding.
4/25/09
Had planned to make this a two-day entry, but it's gotten so exceedingly long, that I'll be brief: had heard about an urban/guerrilla art show on E. 3rd (I think) and Chicon, so Tania and I decided to check it out. We met downtown, and were gonna grab a drink first, but just kept walking throughout the streets below E. 6th. There's an awesome mini stage set-up (even with what seem like stripper poles) that's made of all these little mirrors, outside of a gallery on E. 5th. The show we went to ("This is Urban") was pretty cool. Pretty mellow too. I was expecting a bit more of a spectacle/party, to be honest. But beyond the gallery was a softball park, where everyone had gathered, with picnics and beer, to watch a couple of adult-league teams face off. We stayed for awhile, enjoying being spectators in a spectator sport. Then an al pastor taco at Club Primos (there is actually a club, but when you're walking up the street, it looks like the "club" is just the taco wagon out front; I always get funny visions of a disco ball and people dancing shoulder to shoulder inside this little wagon). Then some scouting for future East Side jaunts, and that's it. Back to our home, south of the river. A world away.
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