Austin360 blogs > Bottlecaps & Wingnuts > Archives > 2005 > July
July 2005
A little bit more than the law will allow
“Have you seen the Jessica Simpson video?”
Shannon asked me that a couple weeks ago, adding “it’s OK if you have.”
It’s OK? I hadn’t seen it, but it sure must be something if I needed forgiveness for watching it. I thought about it for a while, got distracted and then that train of thought derailed and disappeared.
(A little deep background here: Next week I will become the latest Austin American-Statesman temporary film critic when I review the “Dukes of Hazzard” movie. What? You didn’t really think they’d get anyone else to do this, did you? Look for the review in print and online next Friday).
So I had a reason to be checking out the “Dukes of Hazzard” movie Web site, when I ran into that Jessica Simpson video.
Hmmm. A little research opportunity. I love my job. Because I was at work, I played it with the sound off. Who am I kidding? Even if I saw it on TV at home, I’d have played it with the sound off.
I have one real comment on the video (and no, it’s not anywhere along the lines of “hubba, hubba woo-boy”): When Jessica pulls up into our pseudo-cowboy-redneck dusty town in the General Lee, she opens up the door.
What’s up with that? In the TV series, the doors were welded shut, you see. I don’t care if Jessica’s boots were made for walking, she’s trampling on a quarter-century of tradition here.
As many times as I had to watch Bo and Luke Duke squirm through the windows of that Dodge Charger — not to mention, please don’t, the times we saw rotund Uncle Jesse squeeze into that car — we ought to get to see Jessica fall out of the window.
Permalink | Comments (1) | Categories: By Dave Thomas
You wouldn’t like me when I’m angry
Today’s Lesson in Irony is brought to you by the letters J, E, R and K.
So there I was, there I was on the Drag. I’d given up on Schlotzsky’s (no parking) and was caught up in the traffic jam, drifting helplessly northward in the right lane.
The traffic was flowing again after a red light when a guy in a white truck cut across the lane out of nowhere. Apparently the van in the left lane had stopped to let him turn into the UT campus.
Of course, the woman in the Honda in front of me had no clue this guy was coming — and she hit him. Not very fast, but there was an audible collision.
Then the guy in the truck went nuts, cussing (I’m guessing) and pounding every surface of his truck’s interior with his fists in Tarzan-like fury. This guy just about exploded in a rage I imagine went something like this: “What WAS that woman THINKING when she drove FORWARD in her OWN LANE!? Shouldn’t she EXPECT white trucks to APPEAR out of nowhere AT ANY TIME?!!”
He jerked the truck to a stop and leaped out, apparently on the verge of turning green, developing huge muscles and rampaging through campus in shredded purple pants (OK, I’m getting a little carried away, here). He walked around to survey the devastation.
Hardly a scratch — at least no serious damage I could see. He calmed down enough to pull the truck off the road, followed by the poor woman in the Honda who probably decided right then and there to either take a self-defense class or become a nun.
Me? After watching it all unfold, I was thinking he probably did more damage himself to the interior of his own truck than the Honda did to the exterior.
Permalink | | Categories: By Dave Thomas
Are you nekkid?
Nude men running on the Barton Creek Greenbelt!
Or at least that’s what I thought I saw. It was on Monday, the first time I had mountain biked as far as the Twin Falls access point, and I was on the home stretch of my return to Zilker.
(Rule No. 1 about Dave biking the Greenbelt: The Greenbelt hates me and I must pay with my blood. There’s a stretch just before the first crossing that’s particularly rocky and the only time I’ve crossed it without a scratch — or more — was the time I got a flat.)
My sunglasses were streaked with sweat and it was shady, so I didn’t get the definitive look (and I’m thankful), but I thought I saw a man who was running absolutely nekkid. If he wasn’t in the buff, he was wearing a thong that would make Leslie blush. Oh yeah, he was wearing running shoes.
The thing I love about Austin is that if you’re paying attention at least once a day you’re going to see at least one person doing at least one thing that don’t make a lick of sense. I chalked up to keeping Austin weird and kept on.
But not far down the trail, I saw what seemed to be an older man talking his grandson for a nature walk. And it occurred to me that this jogger must have passed them. And it occurred to me that this kid (maybe 6 years old?) got a bit more nature than he bargained for.
And sure enough, as I cycled through, that young one had a wide-eyed expression, like everything mom had told him about strangers had turned out to be horribly and irrevocably true.
I’ll bet there was an interesting discussion at the dinner table later that night.
Permalink | | Categories: By Dave Thomas
Into the west
It’s sad to know I just finished the last of my summer three-day weekends — a planned trip to Big Bend in the fall means I’ll have to hoard what scraps of my vacation time remain.
Still, Saturday was worth it. Friend from California, that’d be Bret, was in Texas for a long weekend of his own and hosted a party at his parents’ place out west of Marble Falls.
Three things about that trip:
It’s not that the party was way out there, it’s that it rained the whole way there. Did I say “rained”? That doesn’t quite cover it. Think cows and flat rocks and you’ve got the idea.
Bret’s parents live in an impressive house on a hill overlooking Kingsland, lords of all that they survey. It’s a darn good argument for getting a powerful college degree in some field like quantum geophysical chemical nano-engineering (I just made that up, but it sounds good), managing your money properly and investing wisely. I didn’t do any of that. I’m still lord of all that I survey — but that’d be the backyard. And it needs mowing.
It was good to see the guys again. Since I moved to FSA (Far South Austin) a year ago, I’ve been a recluse of sorts. Sure, I’ve drunk cheap beer, cussed, talked smack about football, compared barbecue joints and told questionable jokes in my hermit’s abode, but it’s just not the same when the only other male around is Woodrow the cat. And even Woodrow’s not the cat he used to be.
Permalink | Comments (2) | Categories: By Dave Thomas
Marty Robbins wouldn’t approve
Third Thursday — Guadalupe Street’s answer to First Thursday — makes me sad.
Well, actually what made me sad is that when I joined Shannon and Julie of the East Side at the Texas Showdown on Thursday, loud and obnoxious music from the Kerbey Lane parking lot forced us to sit inside.
The Texas Showdown is my favorite bar in Austin, and has been since my friend Bret reintroduced me to Austin a decade ago. (I don’t mention the Showdown often because I live too far south to patronize it on any sort of regular basis.)
And sitting on the back porch of the Showdown is pretty much my idea of the best part of Austin.
Given all that, being forced inside by music I don’t want any part of (and which seemed to represent about nine-tenths of Third Thursday) … well, that was depressing.
Other things that make me sad?
We have a back-to-school story in Saturday’s paper. School shouldn’t even be mentioned until August.
Fireworks “superstores.” Buying fireworks while not standing between a hot sun and a fire ant mound is just un-American.
CMT’s countdown of Greatest Cowboy Songs. Marty Robbins’ “El Paso” not only wasn’t No. 1, but was behind some Tim McGraw song. The pain…
A retraction: Shannon was annoyed with yesterday’s blog, which insinuated that we’ve both been gorging ourselves since her triathlon. Actually, she wants everyone to know, she’s lost five more pounds since then.
Permalink | Comments (2) | Categories: By Dave Thomas
Step away from the queso
So, tubs, are you running or what?
Loyal readers of my blog — all four of you, hi Mom! — might be asking me that. They might recall the inspired vow I made to run a triathlon this fall after Shannon’s triumphant running of the Danskin a little more than a month ago.
Loyal readers might be wondering if that vow disappeared in evenings of fried chicken and nights at the Mean-Eyed Cat.
Well, immediately after Shannon’s triathlon our eating habits began a slow slide to the bad (good) old days (why, hello queso) and though I was exercising more than ever, my weight was beginning a steady climb. Not so suddenly, I weighed 12 more pounds in mid-June than I did in mid-April.
More muscle? I might try that if I were trying to fool someone other than myself. The added weight and added summer heat were taking a toll on my endurance. I quickly went from thinking about how fast I want to try to swim, cycle and run to wondering if I could finish the race.
After a birthday week of what passes these days for epic consumption of cheesy, fried and fatty stuff, I got back on track this past Sunday — conveniently eight weeks until the Dilloman.
Eight weeks of good behavior and a no-excuses-exercise-comes-first mentality. With one week almost down — and 52 days until D(illo)-Day — things have started to go my way again.
And no, I haven’t been running. Not just, anyway. I’ve been swimming and cycling. Cycling and running. Running and sweating. Sweating and wheezing — good times, all.
Permalink | | Categories: By Dave Thomas
Our big city begins and ends here
Driving west on Sixth Street, past the oddly named bars (why would I go anywhere named “Touche”?), you come to the intersection with Congress Avenue.
I kinda like that intersection, because it’s the only spot in Austin where our town feels like a big city.
Keep driving west on Sixth and the feeling goes away as you look at the Hills of the Wealthy. Turn south on Congress and it vanishes just as quickly. Turn north and you’re at the Capitol.
No, I’m not overly familiar with real cities. I’ve never been to Paris or New York — and I’ll probably never go. I reckon D.C. and Houston are the only real cities where I’ve spent time downtown.
For the most part, I’ve spent my adult life living in small Texas cities — or large towns, depending on how you look at it. And trust me, there’s no spot in San Angelo that feels like a city. You could be hugging the Cactus Hotel — the only sizable building in town — and you wouldn’t feel anywhere close to urban.
Having a few moments to spare today, I spent 20 minutes at the corner of Sixth & Congress just looking.
Aside from the homeless fellow next to me in the odd combination of Jagermeister T-shirt and Capitol 10,000 ball cap, it wasn’t the cavalcade of oddity I expected. Sure, I saw dozens of dubious fashion statements, a kid on a pimped-out lowrider bicycle and a shifty-looking fellow in star-eyed sunglasses who seemed to be peeking around the corner at me.
But mostly it was guys carrying Starbucks back to the office, tourists and commuters. Even the shifty-looking fellow was just waiting for the No. 6 bus.
Still, it felt big city enough. Heck, there was even a hot dog cart.
Then, after my 20 minutes, that was quite enough big city. I walked back to my truck and once again it was just good ol’ Austin.
Permalink | | Categories: By Dave Thomas
Fried chicken and reggae
Came home from work on Friday night to find a surprise post-birthday dinner of fried chicken (Shannon makes fantastic fried chicken) and a birthday gift: the new Willie Nelson reggae/country album, “Countryman.”
I’m a big Willie fan. You knew that. I’m pretty much a tourist in the reggae world: I like Bob Marley but I don’t know much else in the way of Rasta.
So I won’t try to be the music critic, much. (Read the review by Joe Gross on austin360.com if you want the critic’s take on it.)
But why did this take 10 years to come out? Really, some of the older songs Willie recycled for this album sound like they were lifted from past albums and welded onto whatever reggae beat happened to be floating by at the time. For example, “You Left Me A Long, Long Time Ago” is pretty much the same version you’ll find on the 1996 re-release of the “Wanted! The Outlaws” album — except with a reggae band along for the ride.
Still, if you’re a Willie fan, it’s a pleasant, relaxing diversion. It managed to calm me down yesterday as I drove down Texas 71, after blowing out two bicycle tires in six miles at Pace Bend Park.
Permalink | | Categories: By Dave Thomas
Nature vs. Nintendo
This is why I weep for the children …
I was making another run at the Barton Creek Greenbelt this week, when I saw two kids on the trail. Both of ’em about 10, 11 years old (I’m just guessing). Then one of abruptly stepped off a rock and fell to the ground, hard.
I took a closer look and the one that took the tumble was actually playing a video game while he was hiking down the trail.
He got up, brushed himself off, looking somewhat annoyed that Mother Nature had interrupted him, and kept playing.
As one of my volleyball playing cohorts remarked, he was probably playing a hiking video game.
Permalink | | Categories: By Dave Thomas
I’d rather drink quietly with the hippies
Today, I am 34 years old.
I’m afraid it’s not much of a landmark. I threw myself a heckuva party four years ago when the last day of my 20s coincided with Friday the 13th — a bad omen if I’ve ever seen one. I took two weeks off from work, hiked Big Bend, drank lukewarm Tecate in Boquillas (God rest its soul), saw Billy Joe Shaver at Poodie’s, and ended up with a party in Luckenbach.
The first thing I learned about turning 30 was that I could not party for two weeks anymore.
Today, I’m just thinking about the Redneck Mother.
I own six different recordings of Ray Wylie Hubbard’s song: “Up Against the Wall, Redneck” — three by Ray Wylie and three by Jerry Jeff Walker. In every rendition, that Redneck Mother is “34 and drinking in a honky-tonk, kicking hippies’ (behinds) and raising hell.”
(Apparently, according to Ray Wylie’s Web site, the band Cracker has recorded a cover of the song — but I’ve not heard it.)
Now if Willie says the rednecks and the hippies can get along, well that’s good enough for me. And I’m not sure why 34 is the definitive age for such behavior. But I assure you, any possible days of beating up anyone at a honky-tonk (never happened) or raising enough Cain to be noteworthy (not often) are long gone.
That said, I’ll be 34 and drinking in a honky-tonk tonight.
Permalink | Comments (1) | Categories: By Dave Thomas
How far do you pitch a washer?
This week I installed a washer-pitching pit in my back yard. Actually, the area where I put them was all dirt anyway, no need for pits just yet.
My in-laws had given me a washer-pitching “set” (this was four regular washers, four painted washers and a wood block to secure them — there’s some marketing genius involved there).
I bought two pieces of 4-inch PVC pipe at Home Depot and sunk one into the ground. Now how far away to put the second one?
I looked at the instructions on the “set.” It said 20 feet. I measured that out … heck, that’s a pretty far way to toss a washer. This couldn’t be right. So I set mine 16 feet apart.
Today it occurred to me to doublecheck with a higher power: Google. I found the Washer Pitching Association, which told me 21 feet.
Not satisfied, I found the International Association of Washer Players, which told me 25 feet.
Now, feeling very emasculated by my washer pitching “short course,” I’m gonna have to reconsider. I don’t care if I have to account for the curvature of the earth in my throws — I don’t want people mocking my washer pitching.
Permalink | Comments (1) | Categories: By Dave Thomas
An epiphany at Sam’s
It’s been so long since I blogged about Sam’s Town Point — the bar in the former doublewide at 2115 Allred in far South Austin — that I couldn’t even find the blog in our archives.
I’d promised you’d hear more about the place from me, and I’ve tried. But on my past two visits, my arrival has boosted the bartender-to-customer ratio from 1:1 to 1:2. True, 6 p.m. on Mondays isn’t every bar’s most happening hour, but it makes it hard to write about the place.
Still, this Monday, I had an epiphany of sorts: These kind of bars are the places to find a mechanic. Think about it. I’d say at least 70 percent of the guys who drink in Sam’s are the kind of fellows who work on their own cars. Now, they might have to turn to a mechanic for the toughest work, but they’re knowledgeable enough to not tolerate the kind of mechanics who will rip you off.
Next time the old truck is broke down, I know where to turn for advice.
Permalink | | Categories: By Dave Thomas
The quest for fish sauce
Typically, I believe that if the H-E-B at Slaughter and Manchaca doesn’t have it, then by God, it sure doesn’t need to be in my kitchen.
But I was cooking dinner for Shannon on Monday night and I wanted to impress her (she has recently suggested that my cooking needs to expand past the chicken-‘n-taters stage).
The recipe was Thai Shrimp and Pasta and it called for all sorts of things that I’d never even seen. My local H-E-B did what it could, coming up short on three items: Boston lettuce (huh?), grated ginger root (eh?) and fish sauce (fish what?).
I’m the type of fellow who doesn’t like to quit on a project once I get going, so I bucked up and went to the Whole Foods megastore … and it wasn’t that bad. In fact, it was a very impressive operation.
Once I got there, I headed straight for the “walk-in beer cooler” that Statesman coverage has marveled so much over and, sheesh, it’s not all that. Sure, I could see my breath in there — kind of a weird feeling in July — but the selection doesn’t even match the Whip-In.
I wasn’t particularly thirsty, but just because I could, I bought a Sol (which I fondly remember from my honeymoon) and drank it while I shopped.
The produce guy said they were out of Boston lettuce, but got on the Internet and found a substitute that he recommended. Then he showed me how to peel and grate my own ginger root — all while treating me like I was a four-star chef instead of a semi-lost redneck drinking a Mexican beer in the early afternoon.
I was determined to find the fish sauce on my own, but I had to ask for help again. And again, the staff was impressive — it can’t be easy to walk every customer across that big of a store on a beeline to whatever oddball food item they request.
I can understand how the place could be an absolute madhouse on the weekends, but I left feeling good about it.
And the Thai Shrimp and Pasta?
Wasn’t too bad. Even with the fish sauce.
Permalink | Comments (1) | Categories: By Dave Thomas
At least they spell ‘Y’all’ right…
The other day I came to work to find someone had left me a copy of Y’all — the Magazine for Southern People.
And I was excited. Now, I’ve spent enough time in Deep East Texas to know “Southerners” are culturally a far piece from “Texans” — but I was excited to have a magazine for people at least somewhat like me.
I’d tried Men’s Journal — but I wasn’t in that league. “Be the first on your block to hike Bulgaria’s Rila Mountains,” it told me. Heck, I’m still working on mountain biking the Barton Creek Greenbelt (I discovered on Wednesday that I can be thrown completely over the handlebars even while biking at speeds slower than plate tectonics).
I’d tried Men’s Health — but the constant barrage of photos of chiseled jawlines ate up my self-esteem. Trust me, I’ll be dead for some time before you can see my cheekbones.
Texas Monthly? The stories I can locate between the advertising sometimes thrill me (the occasional rating of the state’s barbecue) and sometimes don’t (the frequent berating of the state’s politics).
But Y’all looked promising: The magazine’s “North Carolina Bureau” is run by some guy named Jason “Pig” Thompson. Sadly, though, Y’all is just lots of glossy pages of annoying fluff.
An example? In the July-August edition, there’s a feature on the Aflac duck — a Dixie Duck, they tell us — that doesn’t say anything about who had the idea to make a duck say “Aflac!” and what kind of drugs they were taking when they thought that up.
Permalink | Comments (1) | Categories: By Dave Thomas
Saloons and cantinas and bars, oh yeah
So, the evening at the Fort Worth Stockyards got off to a good start.
Here’s the rest of the report:
The Cowboy Cantina is the bar nearest my hotel and the only cowboy cantina in the world where the crowd is watching bicyclists wearing high-dollar spandex in France. On two TVs, even. This is the place where I would return post-Willie-picnic to find the bartender spilling out of a bikini top and not much else (I swear I didn’t look, Shannon, I was too tired to notice her! Well, mostly too tired.) I’m guessing there’s a lot of competition between the bars here.
Pearl’s Dancehall & Saloon has Johnny Bush, but also a $10 cover charge. This is the one bar I haven’t managed to set foot in during my two visits to the Stockyards. But it looks like a fantastic place. I hereby vow that’s the first place I’ll go next time…
The Rodeo Exchange doesn’t have Johnny Bush, but still has a $5 cover charge, as well as air conditioning that would freeze the fuzz off a penguin. I move on, stopping briefly at the Longhorn Saloon, which is not nearly as obnoxious (read: popular, crowded) as it was last year.
Accidentally step into PR’s and then break my own rule of the evening by paying a $4 cover charge. A semi-B&W TV in the corner is showing rodeo catastrophes. I’m transfixed. Nothing like watching livestock kick, head-butt, gore, trample, fold, spindle and mutilate skinny cowboys in slow motion.
One complaint: Like most of the bars here, there’s no draft beer and no jukebox at PR’s. Instead, there’s longnecks (OK) and a DJ booth (puke). I abandon my $4 cover charge and head back to the Stockyards Saloon where there’s a live band.
My notes start getting hard to read at this point, but I do have one last bit of info scrawled down: The biggest reaction I heard to any song pre-picnic? At one point, the whole bar stops to sing along with Charlie Daniels’ “Long-Haired Country Boy.”
Ah, Stockyards. I don’t like everything, but I do admire the total lack of pretense.
Permalink | | Categories: By Dave Thomas
Sixth Street for hicks
So the night before I reported on Willie’s Picnic, I stayed at the Hotel Texas and sipped ice water and went to bed early to rest up for my big day.
Yeah, right. As Shannon mentioned last year, the Fort Worth Stockyards is like “Sixth Street for hicks.” And it was guys’ night out (no, actually, it was guy’s night out — I was by myself).
Here a few highlights:
Billy Bob’s Texas reigns supreme, the 800-pound gorilla of the Stockyards. It’s not all that historic, but it’s hard to hold that against a place that has a bull-riding arena and two performing stages. With its video arcade and gift store, it does feel a bit Disney-fied, but the beer was cold and cheap.
The White Elephant is a bit of authentic Texana — it ranks up there historically with Gruene Hall and the Broken Spoke — that’s just way too popular for its own good. It was the site of the official preparty and was packed standing-room-only with young honky-tonkers and some band playing “Keep on Rockin’ in the Free World.”
I retreated up the street and around the corner to the Stockyards Saloon which had about a dozen people in it and colder and cheaper draft beer. On TV, the weatherman says it’s 102 degrees. The bartender breaks out in curses: A group of guys just walked a $60 tab. With any luck, they’ll fry to death out there. This place will be my favorite bar of the weekend.
Had dinner at Riscky’s Steakhouse and I sat at the bar to try and look a little less pathetic eating alone. Entertained myself by gnawing on some rock-hard bread while my order was, apparently, taken to the kitchen by three-toed sloth. But once the steak arrived, it was pretty good.
And that was afternoon and early evening. Back to the hotel to rest a bit. Tomorrow: When the sun goes down on the Stockyards, it’s journalists gone mild!
Permalink | Comments (1) | Categories: By Dave Thomas
Willie picnic encore
Just in from Willie’s Fourth of July Picnic. How was it? Here’s most of the story.
Willie, apparently cured of his carpal tunnel problem that sidelined him for most of last year’s picnic, took the stage several times to jam with his friends — stretching Marty Dread and Los Maui Boys’ 20-minute set into an hour. The picnic’s timetable went downhill from there.
Los Lonely Boys, David Allan Coe and Willie himself all took the stage after I filed my story, with Willie not playing “Whiskey River” until 12:30 — 13 hours after the picnic began.
The real climax of the show came near midnight as Los Lonely Boys brought out their father for a couple of Willie and Waylon classics: “Luckenbach, Texas” and “Good Hearted Woman.” Of course, Willie came out to jam with papa Ringo and that was as good a time as any for the fireworks show, which was lengthy and impressive.
The picnic limped along for another hour. I don’t really want to write about Dave Coe’s 30-minute set because I fear for my life: His fans were rabid. Let’s just put it this way: They got exactly what they came for, though I don’t care for the Kid Rock-flavored style he’s taken on. I mean, really, “You Never Even Called Me By My Name” is the “perfect country-and-western song” because the original didn’t have a breakdown of Eminem’s “My Name Is” in the last chorus.
Oh yeah, and Ray Wylie Hubbard only played three of the four songs I predicted he would and I had the order all wrong.
He was joined by his probably-not-yet-teenage son, Lucas, for his last song: “Wanna Rock and Roll” — and it was really strange. Me, I remember my 1996 Willie Picnic interview with Ray Wylie being repeatedly, if charmingly, interrupted by a knee-high Lucas — who was cute as could be.
Now, on stage jamming with all he’s got, he’s all hair and guitar and talent (hey, he’s good). He won’t like it, but I’ll go ahead and say he’s still cute. I’ll say it, because in a few years he’ll be too cool for words.
OK, enough picnic for now. I’m going home to soak my feet. Maybe take a nap.
Permalink | Comments (2) | Categories: By Dave Thomas
On the job on the Fourth
Not tomorrow, not the next day, but the day after that … Willie’s Picnic. It’ll be the ninth that I’ve attended, but it will also be the third one that I’ve covered for a newspaper.
(Actually, the fourth, if you’re generous enough to count the not-quite-daily Luckenbach Moon as a newspaper).
It’s the first time I’ve been “on the job” on the Fourth since 1996 — and I’m a little bit nervous about it. Back then, the San Angelo Standard-Times issued me a Radio Shack TRS-80 (the sports writers called them Trash-80s) and it was pretty much incomprehensible, though I was still young enough to manage to conquer the technology and file a story.
The Mac laptop issued to me this time, after almost a decade of technological advances, is very spiffy and slightly imposing.
Hopefully, Willie and God willing, I’ll survive the heat, crowds and technophobia to file a story by the end of the Fourth, which will be posted to Austin360.com by Tuesday morning and will run, in a condensed version, in the Statesman on Wednesday.
Oh yeah, and look for my next blog on Tuesday afternoon.
Have a happy Fourth of July.
Permalink | | Categories: By Dave Thomas
