Death and Texas

Found out the other night that the mean old lady who ran Dry Creek, a longnecks-only dive atop Mt. Bonnell in Austin, passed away last year at 95. It wasn't surprising news, but I was still surprised. I assumed she'd be old forever, like the jar of pickles on her bar that no one had dipped into since the 70s, or “The Ballad of the Green Berets”, her jukebox's eternal greatest hit. The place is famous for its rickety deck, which overlooks the lake. Every time you bought a beer, she said the same thing: “Bring back your bottles. And no gambling.” She never actually went upstairs, so patrons ignored her and played cards, which she considered gambling even with no money on the line. But everyone brought down their bottles.

(photo from maggiesaustin.com) 

The girl who told me went to law school at UT. Years ago, one of her classmates saw a guy passed out on a table upstairs. Eventually it became apparent that he wasn't passed out. He was dead. The law student ran downstairs and frantically told the owner, who didn't even look up. “Yeah, yeah, already called, cops are on the way”.

I had a friend in Dallas with a similar story. When I knew him, he was a sommelier at Liberty Noodle (Dallas' version of Republic Noodle), but in the early 80s he was the preeminent drug dealer to Dallas' punk scene – at 6'6” with an outrageous pompadour, his profile was not low. One time he showed me a Polaroid of him and a buddy, smilingly propping up a third guy who they thought was passed out. Eventually it became apparent that he wasn't passed out. He had tried to swallow a burger whole while under the influence of a drug I'd never heard of, and bad things happened.

I don't think anybody expected that guy to live forever, but I bet my friend was still surprised.

White Lines

Had absolutely no intention of going out tonight. Even started a new blog to keep me occupied on the couch: http://evilisthenewblack.blogspot.com/
Neat.

At 1:30am I got a drinks-call from Troy, in town from Austin and then-exiting the Devendra Banhart T-5 show with his British buddy Pat -- who apparently works telecom with Banhart's father. Small world.

Met them at The Cabin Down Below (Niagara), where the Banhart's-Dad connection got us into the semi-private room along with the bassist from the Strokes, and a bunch of other guys who might or might not have been the bassist from the Strokes.

Which is where Pat -- a former Olympic diving alternate and Lincoln, Nebraska radio personality (DJ "Wayne King") -- told us the weirdest 9-11 story of all times:

He'd answered a Village Voice roommate ad for a pad overlooking Downtown. The roommate was a third-rate drug dealer, from Jamaica by way of London. He smugly professed a violent hatred for white people, but the rent was only $600.

On the morning of the attacks, Pat ran back to the apartment to find his roommate passed out in bed with an Australian woman. Pat screamed out an account of what had happened. His roommate told him to shut up and let him sleep. Pat again screamed out the recap. The woman groggily sat up and said, not particularly emotionally, "I thought I heard something". Pat's roommate walked over to the window, surveyed the fallen buildings, and declared,

"This is a white man's war."

Then he went back to sleep.

Shortly thereafter, the roommate bought a shitload of cocaine to sell. Just a shitload. He was trying to finance a restaurant or something, and had also maxed out six credit cards for $20K. Anyway, the cocaine was terrible -- all it did was make you sneeze. And, apparently due to the Great Anthrax Scare, the market for all powdered substances had instantly dried up.

The roommate took to glumly sitting around watching television. As Pat was gleefully fond of reminding him, it wasn't just a white man's war anymore.

[On a semi-related note: Pat also has a new idea for a TV show: "It's called Two and a Half Men. You've got these two brothers. And one of them has a baby. And they ignore the baby to do an incredible amount of cocaine. Then they call up a hooker and just really, really fuck the hooker. And the baby is just in the corner, shitting itself. They look up and see that the baby has shit itself, and then they say, 'Oh, no, the baby has shit itself. What should we do?' Then they do more cocaine."]

Not Much Rhymes with Pelican

At the Standard last night,

We didn't buy the espresso martini providing so much merriment here:

I saw this random guy hide it in the plants on the windowsill, right before he ditched his tab. Not sure how stashing the glass helped his escape. No rhyme or reason there.

Also out of nowhere, Stephanie, right, revealed that she played a protester in The Pelican Brief. She held a sign and screamed “Meat is murder, fur is death, keep the tuna dolphin safe”.

Reason, maybe.
Rhyme, none.

Every Rose Has Its Snack Cake

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Cock Around the Clock

From: (some guy at a pr company)
Date: Tue, 17 Aug 2010 05:15:28 -0700
To: (me)
Subject: Story: What Woman Think Of Being Single At 40 - New Movie The Switch Launches Friday

Hi *****, hope you’re having a good week.

I wanted to share an interesting story angle inspired by Jennifer Aniston's new movie The Switch, coming out August 20th. Dr. Block, Psychologist and Relationship expert for CanDoBetter.com, explains how woman in their 30s start to look at men based solely on their breeding abilities. The movie specifically deals with issues such as the female psyche, sperm donors, and that always ticking biological clock!

Think about it, have you ever wondered what’s going on through the mind of a 40year old unmarried, childless woman? A recent survey from BeautifulPeople.com, an elite dating site for beautiful people only, surveyed 50,000 members and found 96 percent of women desired having beautiful children. Greg Hodge, Managing Director of BeautifulPeople.com said, “Parents want their children born with many fine attributes; like it or not attractiveness is an attribute in today’s society. It may not be politically correct to say so but what mother or father does not want a beautiful baby.”

Dr. Block from CanDoBetter.com, a social networking and dating website which lets the world decide if your relationship is a perfect match, thinks Jennifer Anistons character isn't all that far off from reality. Dr. Block explains how women in their 30s subconsciously begin to hear the “tick tick” of their biological clock. Although some women choose to ignore the Big Ben of biology,  others fixate on it-revealing an interesting glimpse into the female psyche.  Do woman in their 30s, start looking at men based on breeding possibilities? Jennifer Anistons character, and Dr. Block absolutely agree!

Dr. Block says it begins in your 20s, where you choose men because “he’s hot.” Gradually phasing into your 30s, you begin searching for Mr. Right, experiencing numerous heartbreaks along the way. Coming into your 40s, the tick tock is at an all-time high. It has Jennifer Anistons character choosing a donor based strictly on looks…and it’s because she can’t ignore her biological clock.

Some Stats From The Survey:
* 96% of women desiring children want to have a beautiful baby
* 83% of women imagine what their children would look like with prospective partners
* 79% of women if selecting a mate solely for procreation would want that mate to be attractive
* 83% of women receiving donor sperm would want the donor to be attractive

Please let me know if you have any questions or to speak with Dr. Block or Greg Hodge. They are both available to answer your questions.

Regards,
(actually a different guy at the pr company than the one whose name is in the "from" field)
----
My response:
Dear (guy at pr company),
Thanks for thinking of us. Unfortunately, due to space issues imposed by our format, we typically don’t run advice stories. Also, I’m afraid that Dr. Block’s expert opinion might terrify our readers who are not in the top tier of potential breeding candidates, thus causing them to either give up seeking out sex, or worse, concentrate their efforts on teenagers, who, free of the pressures of ticking biological functions, might be more amenable to less attractive men.
(me)

Home Malone

Amtrak'd out to the Naismith Memorial Basketball Hall of Fame dinner at the Mohegan Sun. This barely pubescent pro skateboarder shared the dining car with us, traveling alone to an event. Listening to his banter with the porters, at first we thought he was a freaky little diva, but we realized he was kidding around when he said "My contract stipulated that I would have a significant amount of funds for snacks, and all I get are these Funyons?" -- then started laughing, cracking up the car. I was just impressed that he actually read his contract, and knew the word "stipulated".

They inducted Jordan into this thing last year, but the talent this year was staggering, mainly because among others both the '60 and '92 Olympic teams were enshrined:

They sat us at a table with a husband & wife -- she a die-hard WNBA fan who works in some capacity at Yale and won a Facebook contest, he a...mustache -- plus three other randoms. Plus Ric Bucher, who was the awesomest. Dinner highlights:

• For a 52-year-old mother, Nancy Lieberman-Cline looked outrageously hot -- good enough to get away with a very revealing top. She's just Nancy Lieberman these days, so hey, you go girl. 
• Posthumous International Inductee Maciel “Ubiratan” Pereira's photo looked like a 1930s mugshot. He definitely shot a general-store clerk in Texas at one point.
• Bucher gave us good-natured shit for clapping for an '07 Inductee -- former Yugoslav National Team Coach Mirko Novosel -- even though we'd never heard of him before his name was announced. I told Bucher whoever Novosel was, I figured he deserved to be there more than I did. Bucher accepted this logic.
• Charles Smith also deserved to be there more than I did, and more than my colleague Ben. But had the occasion arisen, Ben would not have clapped for Charles Smith. He's still really angry at Charles Smith.
• Dolph Schayes is a mountain. He appears to have achieved the peace of a man who's spent years living on top of one. 
• Why Willis Reed didn't have a second career in blaxploitation flicks is inexplicable and inexcusable. As Bucher put it, Reed is "the coolest bad ass you'll ever meet". 
• The night's biggest surprise: Luther Wright killing it on the guitar for the NBA Legends Band.

Ben put the over/under at seven for stars showing up at the Ultra 88 nightclub afterparty. I took the under, and I'm pretty sure there ended up being zero, though I was banking on Hubie Brown.

Afterwards, we hit another bar. This random couple who'd been at the Sublime concert started talking to us. The guy was kind of a scumbag. He told us he was going to proposition a little person (who'd been at the dinner) for a three-way. We thought he was kidding. He wasn't. The little person politely declined. This is the girl's peacock tattoo:

This morning, we hung out in the lobby for an hour. That's Karl Malone, reclining between graciously posing for pictures and signing autographs. And on the right that might or might not be the same little person:

We mostly left the celebrities alone, but damn, Karl Malone:

He ended up being insanely nice. And weirdly funny. Here's the exchange between Ben and him:

"Mr. Malone, I know you're probably tired of signing autographs, and I apologize for not being 8-years-old, but is there any way I could take a picture with you?"
"Sure. Just don't stand behind me. That's how Jesse James got shot."
"I wouldn't dream of it. I don't have a gun."
"You don't?" (pats pant leg, smiling) "I do."

We're 99% sure he was kidding, but that dude who looks like Chuck Daly was definitely packing heat.

Of Mice and Beds

My family recently lost our cat of 19 years, a Maine Coon named Radar (for the MASH character) my mom adopted from the pound. But we are not cat-less, because my parents recently adopted Mouser:

Mouser is also a Maine Coon. Unlike Radar, he wasn't adopted from a shelter in Dallas. He was living in a field in Montana, where my parents moved in 2001, subsisting entirely off his namesake. He started sleeping with my mom's horses for warmth, so she started feeding him. Now he's splitting time between the barn and my folks' bed.

He is still killing the shit out of mice.

How Do We Know He's Not Lying?

(taken between sakes at Kumo Sushi, 13th & A, sometime after complaining to waitress about not being invited to Chelsea Clinton wedding)

The Kids are All Going to Die!

Saw The Kids are All Right last night. It really was a poignant and sharply observed story of modern family life. Or one kind of modern family, anyway, since I'm a straight man, and was at the Loews VII by myself.

Leaving the theater I ran into an acquaintance-turning-into-friend (acquiend? that sucks), and her friend, and we had post-movie drinks at Black and White. Turns out my acquiend was brought up in an apocalyptic Christian cult called The Lord's Body, or some variation on that theme. She quit believing when she realized, hey, why am I learning all this survivalist crap if I'm going to be snatched into Heaven immediately upon the Lord's Rapture?

(sign of the apocalypse?)

I told her I quit caring about the Apocalypse when this chunky, bearded, flattopped ex-skateboarder back in Dallas, Otto, sulkily avoided paying me the $100 he owed me for my old Dell laptop. Otto always talked about how all the shit he knew would keep him standing tall well after The End came -- but until It did, he couldn't even figure out a way to muster up a hundred bucks for a computer he claimed he could take apart and put back together? Prove your worth now, for The Lord's Body's sake. Or just blow somebody for the cash, I don't care.

My acquiend's friend said that when The End came, she planned to hang on a boat a few months, until all the really nasty people killed each other. Pretty optimistic, thinking that after God calls it quits, any amount of time could make The Kids All Right again.