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.

American Standard

The hands at right and the Bud at center belong to my friend Dean, who in the late 90s worked across the parking lot from the Austin building targeted Thursday by some guy smart enough to be able to (at least at one point) afford & pilot a Piper Cherokee, but dumb enough to think that flying it into some local government offices would be a good solution to his tax issues. Right after it happened, my buddy checked in with his old boss, then called his college friend “Fuego”, who used to work nearby, and who he'd meet for lunch at the Dave & Busters or Taco Cabana -- which, if you don't know, is the greatest fast-food franchise in all the world. Fucking dogballs, it is good.

“Holy shit, 10am. If this'd happened while you were still there, you'd have seen it from the 183 overpass,” said Fuego, alluding to the fact that Dean was "notoriously and habitually late", and would've been just then arriving at work.

“Fuck no I wouldn't have,” said Dean. “I'd of gotten there at nine with a massive 40 hangover, then curled up under my desk, listened to Seven Mary Three and missed the whole thing.”

Which is not boozer's braggadocio. He loved alcohol, and Seven Mary Three, still loves the former, and at least maintains a soft spot for the band. Regardless, I've never once heard him apologize for things he once enjoyed (and if not Seven Mary Three, then what?).

As for plane-flying manifesto writers who grow so densely self-absorbed they undergo nuclear-fusion, their brand of unapologetic has become cumbersome.