Austin360 blogs > Bottlecaps & Wingnuts > Archives > 2005 > May
May 2005
On the river
It’s afternoon on the Guadalupe and I’m pleased. We’re — Shannon, Julie of the East Side, Mike and I — tubing “the horseshoe” near Canyon Lake.
This marks the fourth year in the row Shannon and I have kicked off the summer with a Memorial Weekend tubing trip. Despite the rains, the river’s not as cold as it has been in May in past years. And, probably because of the rain, most of the campers have headed home instead of going for one more afternoon on the river.
But there’s still enough folks to keep it interesting: Would-be Rasta teens, families with fathers who have reached the end of their patience, quiet beer soakers, and yes, frat boys who scream “Gimme a Coooooors!”
I’m doing the quiet-beer-soaking-thing. I’ve got this figured out, for the most part. Big straw hat. Suntan lotion. Coozie. Small cooler for the tube. Big cooler in the car to restock the small cooler for the second trip. Loving, responsible wife to drive us home.
Float, sip. Float, sip. Paddle away from noisy frat boys. Float, sip.
Later, there’ll be trouble of course. The Spurs, unavoidably, will lose the one playoff game in this series that I’ll get to watch. I’ll have odd splotches of sunburn where I missed with the sunblock. I’ll be so overcome with hunger that I’ll order the only unpalatable appetizer that Hill’s Cafe has to offer.
But for now, on the river, all is good.
Float, sip.
Permalink | | Categories: By Dave Thomas
I’ll have the kung pao whatnot
Don’t tell anyone, but I’ve developed a recent fascination with Chinese food.
Yes, I am a 33-year-old man who has not eaten Chinese food until, basically, this year. Oh, I’ve tried it a time or two, but it doesn’t really count unless it’s my idea. For the longest time, I just didn’t like it.
Now, I’m about to say something even crazier: I didn’t eat Tex-Mex until I moved to San Angelo, after college.
My San Antonio-born wife, who was probably weaned on cheese enchiladas, thinks this is the craziest thing she has ever heard. But because my dad didn’t like Mexican food, we just didn’t have it.
Sure, we’d have tacos when he was out of town. And fajitas were a big hit at one family reunion. But that good ol’ plate of brown and yellow and grease and cheese? Never had it.
It was only after moving out to West Texas that I picked up the Tex-Mex habit. Starting, out of sheer politeness, when I was invited to a co-worker’s tamales-and-Feliz-Navidad celebration.
Trust me, it was only my habits of observation and caution that kept me from eating my first tamale with the corn husk on it. There’s a much finer line than most of us know between charming stranger and complete moron.
But back to the Chinese food. My big problem now is that I have no idea what each dish is, and I can never recall what I had the time before.
So I’m always turning to Shannon and asking, “What kind of soup do I want? What do I want to eat?”
At least I’m getting plenty of practice for senility.
Permalink | | Categories: By Dave Thomas
Snake hurdling: the new South Austin sport
When I saw that Pamela LeBlanc was writing about the Austin area’s lesser-known parks, I feared that she would reveal my own private park to the masses.
I shouldn’t have worried. While Mary Moore Searight is a couple-minute walk from my front door, it doesn’t have beautiful waterfalls, majestic pines or groovy palmettos.
It’s a quiet park, where I can bike, run, jog, stagger, collapse on the ground and wheeze and only sometimes see someone else.
And it has snakes.
Sometime last year Shannon and I were jogging up one of the hills on a side trail when a black-and-red-and-yeller snake darted toward me on a surprise attack. I actually hurdled the snake, though in a terribly unathletic way that I’m not particularly proud of. Then I went back and looked at it.
Red touch yellow. A coral snake. Trust me, I know. I was an Eagle Scout.
(Yes, right now my old Scoutmasters are shaking their heads in shame. “An Eagle Scout and he ended up a journalist,” they’re saying. “A beer-drinking, honky-tonking, Aggie journalist. Where did we go wrong?”)
More recently I saw another snake on a back trail, this one quite large, but not poisonous. I jogged around the back end.
Then today, there was another one. I jogged up close to this one and looked it over. It didn’t look like one of our four categories of poisonous snakes … unless of course someone had let their exotic snake go free by the banks of Slaughter Creek.
Probably not. And it was blocking the trail. I thought back to the coral snake and decided that a second snake hurdle would make it a tradition instead of a panicky unathletic lurch.
I backed up a few steps and ran, and right before the jump, the stocky green snake moved… giving my hurdle a Beamonesque quality — at least to the extent that a man who ordinarily would have trouble hurdling a six-pack of tallboys could be Beamonesque. Then I kept running down the trail …
(Later, at lunch, Shannon was not impressed. “What are you, 10 years old?”)
So stay away from our little park. It has snakes.
Unless you want to be a Snake Hurdler.
Man, that sounds cool. I’ve got to make myself a T-shirt.
Permalink | | Categories: By Dave Thomas
Getting into hot water
The drainage pipe on the east side of my house was draining all right. A steady stream of water for days on end.
“That can’t be good,” was my first thought. And I contemplated that for a week. Or two.
But when the east side of the house started turning boggy I reckoned I had to do something before it was declared a federally protected wetland.
Finally, this week I went to Home Depot and laid out $20 for a rubber hose and a clamp to redirect the drainage to some place in the back yard that wasn’t spontaneously evolving entire new species of bugs.
Once I had some money invested in the project, I got to studying on it. I called my father: “Air conditioning drain,” he told me. My father-in law: “Air conditioning drain,” he told me. Air conditioning troubles? In the summer?
That can’t be good.
But I was contrary about it and investigated the hot water heater. Ah, the T&P valve has been tripped.
I check the T&P valve drain pipe: Ooh, hot! I check the water coming out of the hose: Ooh, hot! Then I close the valve and drink a Lone Star and wait for the water flow from the hose to stop. It does. This is what we call the “Aggie Scientific Method.”
Mystery solved. Which is good, because calling the plumber and saying “I’ve got water coming out of the side of my house and I have no idea why” is pretty much the same as saying “Here’s my credit card. I understand you’ve been wanting to buy new tires for your truck. Just charge whatever you need to.”
Now I know I have a problem with the water heater.
That can’t be good.
Permalink | | Categories: By Dave Thomas
A love affair rekindled
Having been a West Texan who looked to Austin as an oasis of cultural cool, I can tell you that nothing ruins that fascination like moving here.
For those of us more comfortable with Manchaca than Manhattan, the scope of even our little city is tiring. The astounding variety of cool places to eat, drink and be merry is paralyzing.
(Unfortunately, this does not prevent the one place we settle on from being jam-packed with every other Austinite.)
Give any new good ol’ boy arrival a year or two, and they stand a good chance of sitting at home, rarely venturing past the nearest bar or shopping center and cussing the crowds and the traffic even then.
Fortunately, nothing reminds me that hey, this place is pretty cool, like having an out-of-town guest.
My sister, Julie, was here on Sunday and was smitten with the Alamo Drafthouse. People can order beer at the movies? Chocolate cake? A whole meal?
Every place we went, it was more questions: Why is that guy riding his bike in the middle of the road? Who is this “Leslie” guy again? Is there live music everywhere? Are all the waiters in this town stoned?
Ah, Austin. I won’t take you for granted again.
Permalink | | Categories: By Dave Thomas
A bad job, a good story
Spent the best part of Thursday evening at the Stardust Club on Manchaca Road (it’s a bit farther from the house than Sam’s Town Point, but has cold draft beer) with Shannon and our pal Julie of the East Side.
(It was the best part of the evening because watching the Spurs stumble their way to a lucky win over the Sonics later that night was as much fun as slamming my head in the door.)
Julie regaled us with a tale of how she worked a temp job keeping inventory at a slaughterhouse in Michigan. She described in detail, the processes, the baleful look of the cows, and in great, great, somewhat unsettling detail, the smells involved.
It made my odd jobs seem boring in comparison. Suddenly, my construction worker stories seemed weak. Baling hay? Boring. Lawn maintenance? Yawn.
Though she only worked in the slaughterhouse three months, Julie said the experience made her a vegetarian for a year.
Me, I’ve given all this careful thought throughout the course of the morning.
I think I’m cooking hamburgers tomorrow.
Permalink | | Categories: By Dave Thomas
Is the Gringo Honeymoon over?
Dear Robert Earl Keen,
It’s hard to say this so I’m gonna get right to the point: I think we’re growing apart.
The 12 years we’ve spent together has meant a lot to me. In the beginning, I was there when you were playing the Stafford Opera House in downtown Bryan with not quite two dozen in the audience for the 7 p.m. “sit-down” show.
In interviews in those days you told me how you hoped to play the Astrodome at the Houston Livestock Show and Rodeo (I never doubted you would) and how you always played your best because these club owners were charging up to $10-15 a ticket (seemed like a lot to me back then, too).
I was there in 1995 for your first performance at Willie’s Fourth of July Picnic. You closed with what I guess to be one of the first performances of the amped-up rendition of “The Road Goes on Forever” and the crowd went absolutely nuts, throwing empty (and half-empty) beer cans everywhere.
I went backstage to interview you and you were wide-eyed with adrenaline. “Did you see that?” was the only quote I got.
But artists have to grow. And the beer-can-throwing mosh pits will ultimately wear on everybody involved.
Your music changed and I changed and the whole scene changed. We hadn’t talked in years now, but I went out last week to buy your new album.
I listened and listened. And … really, is that a saxophone on the title track? Robert Keen, Robert Keen, I ain’t ready for this.
This might sound a little odd, given what I said earlier this week, but I’m not ready to grow up quite yet.
Serious music critics, of course, will tell you the album is great and mature and all that. They’re right, as usual.
But me, I’m not sure. I’m starting to worry about us.
I am drawn to one song on the album. “We were the wild ones,” you sing.
Yeah, we sure were.
P.S. OK, the album is growing on me. But not the saxophone. Saxophone … sheesh.
Permalink | | Categories: By Dave Thomas
Because singing fish are so last year
This is the sorta thing that gives rednecks a bad name.
I was walking through the Academy sports store on William Cannon when I stopped dead in my tracks. Like a deer in the headlights of something awful.
They are selling a fake deer head mount. Bad enough, but this one sings. You know, like Big Mouth Billy Bass.
I had to take a closer look. Buck — that’s his name, though the 10-pointer does come with removable antlers — not only moves his ears and mouth, not only sings, but knows six songs.
You can hear him sing “Rawhide,” “Friends in Low Places,” “Sweet Home Alabama,” “Suspicious Minds,” “La Grange” or (Willie, I hope you got a bundle of money for this) “On The Road Again.”
(Odd how there were no options for the opera-and-wine crowd. Not a single Buck knew any Puccini.)
But Buck offers so much more: He has infrared motion sensor mode, he can nod his head, tell jokes and has ears that can wiggle “randomly or on command.”
One Web site details how you can perform karaoke with Buck.
Another site says “Buck very well could be the biggest and best conversation piece you’ve ever had!”
Yes. No doubt it would also be the loudest and last conversation I ever had with my wife.
You can have one, though. Only $128 at Academy.
Not me. Not unless it could sing the Gourds’ cover of “Gin and Juice.”
Permalink | | Categories: By Dave Thomas
Guy Clark, Part IV
Smarter folks than me say we pay for the sins of our past.
True enough, but though I have been that young and I have been that drunk, I’m pretty sure I’ve never been that loud, that obnoxious, that clueless or that weighed down with hair gel.
I’m just guessing about the hair gel part. I didn’t get a good look at the two young men who, along with an equally drunken young lady, sat immediately behind Shannon and me at the Guy Clark concert at the Cactus Cafe on Sunday. I didn’t get a good look at ‘em, but you know the type.
Really, it was a fantastic show, everything I could ask for out of my $68.17 worth of tickets, fees, taxes and whatnot. The opening act was someone I hadn’t seen — Gurf Morlix — and he played a tight and entertaining 30-minute set. Guy and sideman Verlon Thompson played a lot closer to two hours than I would have expected. After playing a 5-6 song series, Guy pretty much opened it up for requests and subsequently played almost every song you’d want to hear him play. And when he turned it over to Verlon for 15 minutes, I was braced to make a bathroom-and-beer run, but Verlon turned out to fantastic, too.
Did I even once accuse Guy of being ornery? Not a chance. He couldn’t have seemed more pleased to be there or more at ease mixing songs with jokes with songs.
The only complaints? The lengthy, lengthy intermission between Gurf and Guy (I’d like to imagine Guy was sinking tequila shots and telling “one more story”) and, yeah, those folks right behind me.
I knew we were trouble when they ordered tequila shots and the guy directly behind Shannon used the word “awesome” in conversation about six times in 30 seconds. He was saying something about a buddy who passed out sitting up, and believe me, it was awesome, awesome, awesome in his world.
Several songs into Guy’s set, I was hoping that they’d notice that other than themselves and the musicians we’d all paid to see, it was quiet in there. Nope. Finally, I had to turn around and — directly channeling the spirit of Grumpy Old Dave of the Future — told one of ‘em to keep it down.
It worked, for the most part. The boys still sang along out of tune. The gal still made some incredibly annoying nasal noise of approval every time Guy would sing something wise, which was often. But they didn’t talk through the set.
I’ll dedicate this last part to college students everywhere: There’s hope for the world if you can get that excited about Guy Clark. Glad you like him. But the Cactus Cafe isn’t the place to be quite that vocal in your admiration. And if you insist … well, don’t sit behind me.
Permalink | Comments (1) | Categories: By Dave Thomas
Lone Star goes retro
I was at Harry’s on the Loop in Willow City a month or so ago (see the Travel section on the Hill Country in the American-Statesman this Sunday for my take on this classic barbecue joint) when the waitress set a beer bottle in front of me that just about made my eyes bug out.
At first glance, it was like I was back in the ’70s.
Turns out, Lone Star Beer is celebrating their 65th anniversary by releasing longnecks and tallboy cans (I haven’t seen any of the regular-size cans) in a slightly modified 1970s-era design. Why they’re celebrating 65 years with a design from 30 years ago is beyond me, but they probably drink a lot in the marketing department.
I’m a small-time collector of Lone Star memorabilia (I think they call it “breweriana,” but I can’t come close to trying to pronounce that) and I had to rush out and buy a six-pack of the longnecks. (Hey, some folks collect stamps and teaspoons — and you can’t even get a good buzz off those).
They’re beautiful. Sadly, I can’t find any photos of them on the Web, but the new retro look is a vast improvement over the flat-out ugly current design, which I think is the ugliest in Lone Star history.
The familiar Lone Star shield is prominently displayed, along with the text “Celebrating 65 Years of Pure Texan Beer.” The bottle caps are fantastic and the six-pack carrier has revived the old slogan “Long Live Longnecks.” Even the cans are adorned with the old-style snowflake sparklies.
Did I say it was like the 1970s? Sadly, nowhere on the cans does it say “Brewed with Pure Artesian Water.” Lone Star just hasn’t been the same since the San Antonio brewery closed down. The new cans and bottles still say they’re brewed in Fort Worth.
Lone Star, you can still look cool. But you won’t have all of my heart (and beer funds) until you go home again.
Permalink | Comments (2) | Categories: By Dave Thomas
I’ve been everywhere, man
I find it astounding that anyone would fly thousands of miles and spend a thousand bucks to get to Amarillo, much less enough British folks to make it an actual phenomenon.
Heck, I wouldn’t spend a nickel to get to Amarillo, even if I were already in Happy.
Of course, other folks would find it equally astounding that someone from San Angelo would feel free to criticize anywhere, except for maybe Oklahoma.
But I can yap, because I’ve been there. And worse. I’ve been to Bleakwood, Brownfield, Flat, Levelland, Nada, Plainview, Quicksand, Sour Lake and Beaumont. I’ve been to the Edge. I’ve been alone in Loving County — and that’s pretty lonely.
I guess I can’t complain, though. I’ve also been to Best, Veribest and Utopia. I haven’t been to the Elysian Fields quite yet, but I’ve been in Comfort, and that’s all a man can ask for. Well, maybe that and a Shiner.
Permalink | | Categories: By Dave Thomas
Sweating to the old-school rap
The Chuy’s Hot to Trot 5K seems like an eternity ago, but actually it was a heckuva lot more recent than the last competitive NBA playoff game. I might as well have spent my free time on Sunday and Monday night watching my newly planted grass grow.
But back to Saturday, Shannon and I were having a free post-race doughnut as well as various cramps and breathing difficulties, when she admitted — without any coercion on my part — that her favorite song to run to was “It’s Tricky” by Run-DMC.
Really.
Myself, I almost always run in silence. The better to hear the screaming inside my head.
Did I say I’d retire after this 5K? What I meant to say was that I’d retire once the race winner is no longer finishing twice as quickly as I am. Ruling out the Tonya Harding trick, I guess I’ll have to get better….
- Side note: The free music at the Hot to Trot 5k was provided by the Chris Tate Band. Seemed like a good enough group, but their web address — which was printed on their handbills and whatnot — looked a lot like “Christ Ate Band.” Which, I gotta say, would be a much better band name.
Permalink | | Categories: By Dave Thomas
Happy little trees
Many of my fellow Statesman bloggers write about television.
I don’t watch much, I admit. But I’m starting to feel the peer pressure here. So this is my obligatory television blog.
Do I watch TV? Heck, yes. My favorite show? Football.
During the off-season I watch the History Channel, which, you’ll know if you’re a frequent watcher, has only two shows: Hitler’s Women Invade Atlantis and UFO Engineering Disasters.
Oh yeah, and Monday mornings on KLRU, I watch Bob Ross and “The Joy of Painting.�
I love that guy.
Really.
Permalink | | Categories: By Dave Thomas
Adventures in lawn care
The grass is growing!
If you don’t think watching grass grow is exciting, you haven’t spent $50 of your hard-earned barbecue funds and four hours of kick-back time putting in grass. It was touch-and-go there for a bit, but I think it’s not going to die.
Planting day was a couple weeks back on a summerlike Monday afternoon. In the midst of my second trip (because my math skills just aren’t that good) to the plant nursery to pick up a handful of extra pieces of St. Augustine, I had a Slurpee attack.
It happens.
So I pulled into the 7-11, in my dirty and dented ‘98 Chevy, wearing my working-in-the-yard clothes and streaked in mud where the sweat had run through the layer of dirt covering most of me.
And I walked through the front door and was greeted by a guy with a tray: “Would you like to try one of our new cucumber sandwiches?”
Silence.
“Do I look like I want a cucumber sandwich?” That’s what I wanted to say, but the poor guy had that “my-boss-is-making-me-do-this” look to him so I just said no.
One Slurpee, no cucumber sandwich, back on the road, the grass is waiting.
Later, of course, I thought of what I should have told him: “No thanks, do you have any quiche?”
Permalink | | Categories: By Dave Thomas
Guy Clark, Part III
The Guy Clark saga continues: You recall how I gave the beloved singer-songwriter a hard time for shilling for Taco Cabana?
Well, Patrick Nichols, freelance writer and critic and Guy Clark fan blogged in response to my blog and now I’m blogging in return.
Technology, whoo.
A quick e-mail correspondence ensued and I learned the following things:
- If Patrick’s experience is any indication, Guy is an engaging and friendly guy who only comes across as ornery sometimes.
- Guy is an honest-to-goodness fan of the original homegrown Taco Cabana restaurant in his hometown of San Antonio, and isn’t necessarily singing about, as Patrick writes, “the cookie-cutter franchise locations that dot the rest of San Antonio, Austin, and points beyond.”
- So that means (I’ll tell myself) that he specifically doesn’t mean the Taco Cabana in College Station that nearly did me in a dozen years ago.
- Of course, now, I’ll never go anywhere for tacos at 4 a.m. Not even if Dale Rice were to give them a five-star review and a dozen roses.
- Particularly not if I’ve been working my way up to 4 a.m. with a buddy named Mack and a plastic bottle of cheap whiskey.
So I do feel a little remorse for poking fun at Guy’s earnest TV and radio commercials. Here’s hoping he’s enjoying Taco Cabana’s money. And my money, too — I’ve got two $30 tickets to his Sunday, May 15 show at the Cactus Cafe.
(And if, after all this, still have no idea who the heck Guy Clark is, I’ll recommend my two favorite Guy albums: Old No. 1 and Dublin Blues. Also, Patrick and I heartily recommend the DVD documentary Heartworn Highways, which features Guy, Townes Van Zandt and David Allan Coe.)
Permalink | | Categories: By Dave Thomas
The SoCo show
Saturday night …
(And right there, we’re off to a bad start. My weekend is Sunday and Monday, and if I return to work on Tuesday writing about Saturday night, you know it was a weekend of yard work and early nights at the Scorpion Estates.)
… seemed like the right night to check out the new Opal Divine’s at Penn Field. It’s up there overlooking South Congress, across from the drive-through beer barn and next to Expose.
(And no, I don’t go to strip clubs. But you can’t deny that they make fantastic landmarks. Somehow, nobody goes there and everybody knows where they are).
Typically, I avoid places where Scotch connoisseurs and microbrew/import beer enthusiasts congregate. No redneck worth his boots can stand somebody sneering at his Lone Star. But I was heading there with my co-workers, and Opal’s makes a fine compromise destination.
(There are bars that some people love and other people hate, and then there are joints that nobody can think of any real objection to.)
It was a slow night, but it only took one other group of people with terrible musical taste, lots of dollar bills and a jukebox with more terrible songs than any one jukebox ought to have to chase us into the cold night and the patio overlooking South Congress.
(There’s bad musical taste, and then there’s gleeful musical malice.)
Working on the last drinks of the evening, Raeanne, Katherine and I watched a lone prostitute walk the street below. One pedestrian apparently couldn’t make up his mind, and missed out when a car pulled over and picked her up.
(If gentrification is rolling south, it wasn’t there by Saturday night).
Drinks and theater. Heck, we’ll be coming back.
Permalink | | Categories: By Dave Thomas
