Writing in Public - Part 1: You see a bar in the distance . . .

When I began my trip two years ago I had a vague notion of chronicling all my steps and missteps in the most hipster form I could think of: the blog.  This has proved a much slower process than I could have imagined.  I have recently fallen off the wagon, been trampled by a few horses and have laid on the path the past months waiting for inspiration to help rouse me.  I have finally decided to say nuts to waiting for inspiration. I'm going to start slugging away and try to type the lessons I learned when I started writing.  Therefore, I will spend the next few posts taking a quick interlude from my story to give an insight into my writing process.  Honestly, mostly for myself, but you are welcome to follow along!

After my first true blog entry (Houston Part 1: Badgers in Tigerland) I received a lot of useful critiques which I have henceforth put into practice such as: 1.) More pictures and 2.) Cale your posts are too damn long.  I have thus tried to buzzfeed the crap out of my posts to make them as short and visibly appealing as I can, but sometimes my verbose nature and short attention span for picture taking and in blog placing takes hold and I fall short, but I try dammit.

The first true hurdle that I ran into, and not over, was finding an adequate work environment for constructing these posts.  I began by utilizing the locales where I slept (such as friend's couches or hotel rooms), but I quickly found that the overwhelming amount of distractions did not jive well with my short attention span (peregrine=traveling, discipline=discipline . . . get it, it's a non-sexual double entendre!).  Begrudgingly I dragged myself into coffee shops and bars to see where creativity best flowed.

This was daunting to say the least.  Writing in public is nerve racking.  I think there is a fundamental urge to shelter our artistic creations from unsolicited critiques.  For me, these fears are clearly a mix of paranoia and megalomania, so I remained steadfast and wrote surrounded by strangers in various locations.  Terrifying.

After a great deal of practice my anxiety slowly dissipated and allowed me to analyze the pros and cons of my two primary creativity hubs: bars and coffee shops.

Allow me to begin by analyzing my favorite of the two places while not writing: bars.  Bars are fun locales that attract interesting people, especially during the day.  Fun fact: Pub is short for public house, so they are designed to be inviting, social, and a tad bit raucous.  However, alcohol, the incredible elixir of fun that it is, creates an ever increasing amount of merriment and noise as people become shnockered.  This means that there is a creativity bell curve that occurs in bars that limits the prose production.  Not an ideal place to write at midnight, but it can be acceptable at 3 in the afternoon.  As much as I would like to do all my writings in a seedy bar a la Hemingway, it just isn't feasible for those of us with moderate hearing.  

In the previous chart I have mapped the creativity and production level while writing at a bar.  This chart only takes into consideration three facts 1.)You are in a bar, 2.)You are drinking, and 3.)Your purpose in the bar is to write .  While I will speak in passing of ambiance and noise, this will primarily focus on the level of intoxication and its correlation to creativity.  I will be utilizing the second person present tense to tell the story of creativity in relationship to drinks consumed as if it were happening in real time and to elicit feelings of nostalgia for choose your own adventure books.

Selecting a Writing Bar:
Pictured here is an Irish bar in Berlin named after a celebrated dandy and literary giant.  When in doubt, try to find a bar named after a masterful writer and a celebrated drunk, with any luck you can draw upon the energy of their name to increase both your writing  and drinking prowess.  Channel those good vibes like a warlock.

You see a bar in the distance . . . 

0 Drinks Down, 60% Creativity- You walk into the bar and look around.  Given the odd time of day there are only three other patrons in the bar, a thirty something having a disjointed conversation with the barkeep and a couple at a table who appear to be in town on vacation and are using their time to get a little day drunk.  You sally up to the bar, 2 stools down from the lone man, enough room to hear what he's talking about and engage him in conversation if he's interesting, yet far enough to be protected from his awkwardness if he's a weirdo.  The barkeep greets you amiably and asks if you will need a food menu.  You reply with a pithy remark that informs the bartender that you are only drinking, but aren't a raging alcoholic.  You order a beer, so as to seem a little more respectable (it's the middle of the day after all) and start a tab.  Grabbing your drink and head to a table in the bar area near the wall and are fortunate enough to find an outlet.  The table is close to the bar and provides a good view of the entire establishment in order to allow for ample people watching and eavesdropping.  You begin to unpack your backpack.  You place your beer on the side of your non dominant hand so that it will not be in the way of your writing process, but keep it in clear line of sight so that you don't clumsily knock it off the table.  You plug in the computer and meticulously set up the table to write.  Your computer is directly in front of you, your mouse is just to its side, your primary notebook is next to the mouse precariously close to the edge, and your secondary notebook is behind it.  As you boot up your laptop you take a sip of your beer and take in your surrounding.  There are anticipatory bees buzzing in your stomach, a happy sort of anxiety due to the new surroundings and mild excitement to start your writing for the day.  You open your notebook to the appropriate page with short hand notes for today's writings and begin to clack away at your keyboard.

1 Drink Down, 50% Creativity - You finish the last sip of your beer and sit back to reread what you've already written.  Sure it's riddled with grammatical and spelling errors, but it's a good start, future you can deal with cleanup later.  You quickly save your work  and head back to the bar for seconds.  You make small talk with the bartender and tell him that you are only visiting for a few days.  The man who was at the bar when you walked in chimes in and informs you that this bar is great, and you should definitely come back on a Friday or Saturday night, then continues to say some moderately inappropriate things about the moral fabric of the young (insert the object of your sexual preference here) in the town.  You make a not exactly empty, but definitely offhanded vow to return to establishment during the weekend.  The bartender returns with your drink, you put it on your tab and return to your table.  You, now being future you, reread what you've written and apply those grammatical and spelling corrections that you noticed earlier.  You spend a good portion of the beer working on these corrections.  When you do begin to write again you do so at a slower pace.  That little break and onset drowsiness has put a damper on your creative flow.  You spend the remainder of the beer writing a paragraph, looking around the bar, and eavesdropping on the couple and bartender/bartended.  

2 Drinks Down, 80% Creativity - Another beer down and another trip to the bar.  The man at the bar is still sitting alone, but is decidedly more subdued and less chatty.  You have the briefest of interactions with the bartender with only an order, confirmation, and beer passing between you.  When you sit down at the table this time you feel refreshed.  The drowsiness of the first beer has worn off and you are ready to attack this post.  You start writing at much quicker pace and begin to include pop-culture/obscure references that you fact check on the worldwide web.  You have 9 browser tabs open and are constantly navigating between them and your blog to ensure that you are using words in the proper context and your obscure references are factually accurate.  You even begin to utilize the shif-tab combo to switch between screens to allow for efficiency to the extreme.  You are shift-tabbing, writing with inspiration and alacrity, and taking perfunctory sips without so much as noticing the bar filling around you.  You have reached the elevated plane of function colloquially known as "the zone."  You reach down for your beer with your eyes rereading what you've wrote, lift it to your mouth and discover that it is empty.  It was an exciting run, you were able to write without pause through an entire beer.

3 Drinks Down, 100% Creativity - You are beaming with good vibes as you approach the bar for round 4.  Your witty remarks translate as well spoken as they had written, and you and the bartender banter like old friends.  You're feeling great and a little mischievous.  "Let's see if this place makes a good Old Fashioned" you say to yourself, fully aware of how much time goes into constructing the cocktail, and then order the drink like the smug punk that you are.  You have an extended conversation with the barkeep about the merits of whisky vs. brandy old fashioneds (you are a proponent of the brandy variety and tell him why) and the two of you speak about the venerated cocktail for a good five minutes before he begins to make the drink.  You watch intently and are relieved to see him grab a pestle for the muddling process.  A good sign, you think to yourself, and then stare intently at the process as you scrutinize the process in your head.  "Seems acceptable," you think to yourself as the bartender presents you with the cocktail 5 minutes later.  You take a sip and nod your approval to the man and then strut back to your table.  You look at the screen and reread some of your previous work.  "What drivel" you think, and rewrite it in an acceptable manner.  You have now achieved a full symbiosis with the bar around you: you are smiling at the witty remarks of the new patron at the bar and researching an obscure Wild West reference simultaneously.  You achieved a zen of expression, the input of sensory perceptions is occurring simultaneously with your output of written creative expression.  The more fervently you write, the more fervently you drink.  This blogging nirvana is short lived as you notice you have downed your entire old fashioned.  You look down reverently at your glass as you lament its untimely passing.

100% Creativity
As you look around the room everything is fueling your creative juices.  You are seeing symbols of literary achievement everywhere.  The chairs have become more comfortable.  The art on the wall is speaking to you in profound ways . . . And is that a God damn American Flag on the wall!?  Who cares if it might be a hallucination, it's a creativity fueling hallucination of freedom.  U.S.A.!  U.S.A.!  U.S.A.!

4 Drinks Down, 80% Creativity -  You leap off of your stool and then pause for a minute, because you are feeling a little light headed.  Only for second though, as you regain your bearings and swagger up to the bar like the alcohol fueled cock-strong son of a bitch that you are.  You are on top of the world, you are a juggernaut of creative expression, and you deserve to drink hard alcohol.  You remind yourself that the bartender was able to adequately and correctly construct an old fashioned, so you allow the now venerated craft cocktail crafter to suggest a drink.  He asks if you like mezcal, and by George you do.  He suggests a mezcal drink and you say "Yep, I'll have that."  As you wait you are smiling a wry smile.  Could it be the alcohol increasing your feelings of grandeur or is it a justified sense of self-satisfaction that comes from creating something of quality?  You don't know, and you certainly don't care, because you feel great.  The bartender returns, unveils the drink, and explains the ingredients and how they meld together to create a complimentary flavor collaboration.  You take a sip, give kudos where kudos are due, and return to the table to tap out some more phrases.  You begin to type more slowing and almost as easily as you were before . . . almost.  You find yourself making more and more grammatical mistakes and mistyping wrong letters more frequently than you had before.  You are tapping the backspace more and more frequently, but you are not deterred, because the thoughts flowing through your dome piece are still of the highest quality.  You give up on attempting to correct every grammatical mistake and resign yourself to deal with that shit later.  After what seems like a mere couple of minutes you realize that your drink is no more.  It is time to recharge.

5 Drinks Down, 50% Creativity - This time as you step off of your stool you noticeably stumble.  You begin to admit that you may be starting, but only starting, to get a little tipsy (but only a little).  You walk a little slower to the bar and decide that it may be time to slow down a little bit.  "Beer" you think, "Beer is the ticket."  You grab a drink list at the bar and peruse the menu, being careful to read about every beer in order to select the very best one.  You decide on an amber ale.  It's light, refreshing, and has some flavor.  It sounds like the perfect cure to what ails you.  You notice that the man standing behind the bar isn't a man at all, there's now a woman standing in front of you.  Your bartender friend has forsaken you.  You quickly reminisce about all the good times the two of you had together and then say the farewell in your head that you weren't able to say in person.  Dejectedly, you order your beer from this new person . . . whoever she is.  She fills it with a smile ("a mocking smile" you think) and puts it in front of you.  She has the nerve to ask what your name is, the old bartender would've known.  You give her your name, grab your drink, give a perfunctory smile, and return to your table.  You place your drink on the table and take a moment to look up at the quickly filling bar around you.  There are at least 15 people in the pub now, and they all seem to be having lively conversations.  You sip your beer and listen in on a conversation between two couples.  From the sound of it, they can't wait for the weekend, one of the guys is ridiculous according to his significant other (who would know him better than anyone, clearly), and 3 out of four of them love IPA's while the other isn't a fan.  "Seems like fun" you think, and then lower your head to start writing again.  Your writing pace has slowed significantly and you are still making an exorbitant amount of grammatical errors, but you begrudgingly trudge on.  Your head is also feeling a little fuzzy.  You are having a hard time thinking of . . . those things with letters put together into speaking things.  You write a sentence and then eavesdrop on the other patrons for a good five minutes, it would appear that the night crowd is beginning to arrive and your beer has left.

The Night Crowd

*Not Pictured: Your Beer

6 Drinks Down, 5% Creativity - You decide to grab one more drink and finish up your writing.  You have come to terms that you are drunk and you don't give a fuck.  You will finish this writing bologna quick, ditch all of your crap, and go out to have as much fun as everyone around you.  Screw that, you'll have MORE fun than them.  You decide to sail into the storm and order a whisky and coke.  The bartender, whoever she is, brings it to you, asks for you name (again), and you tell her that you would like to close out.  You wait impatiently as you listen the euphony of merriment around you.  You grab your drink and return to your table.  You stare at your screen and are having difficulty reading the squiggles on the screen.  It must be the lighting in the place.  You write a paragraph of those letter balls onto the screen.  You hit your breaking point and can take no more, so you decide to leave.  You pack up your computer and other writing paraphernalia into your backpack as quickly as you can.  You grab your wallet from the table, make sure your phone is in your pocket, and your keys are in your other pocket.  You slap each pocket in succession to ensure that you've got your goods and hurriedly stagger towards the exit.  As you get close to the exit that new bartender calls after you.  You turn around, not pleased in the slightest to be halted with the exit beckoning you.  She asks "Is that your backpack?".  You look behind you to see your backpack.  "Yes." you answer curtly, and then lurch back to retrieve it.  You fling it over your should with a complete and utter lack of grace or regard and stumble towards the exit.

Thus ends your day of writing at a bar.  You have made it out alive, but your piece is still incomplete.  You have forsaken your task in order to head back to the hostel.  You arrive, clamber up the steps, fumble your way past the lock, and toss your backpack on the bunk.  You shuffle your way down to the hostel lounge where you meet a group of Croatians on a bus trip.  Your newly founded group heads to the bar around the corner and drinks for 6 hours until you are all extremely drunk chummy good pals.

You spend your night at Cafe Klatatsch where you learn and then immediately forget the history of the Croatian War of Independence.

The End

A Holiday Goof

Well, well, well it seems my habit of late night, borderline delirious writing has finally caused a goof.  I published the draft for my next post in its infancy.  However, fueled by hot booze and holiday cheer, I will turn this sneak peak into a full length feature post in the next few weeks.

I apologize for the long delay between this post and the last one, but I have been begging graduate schools to admit me over the past couple of months.  My groveling should come to an end soon, so I will be getting down to some serious blogging soon . . . real soon.

 I wish everyone the warmest and happiest nutmeg and allspice season!

How to Accurately Judge Your Friendships with Cold Hard Analytics

Over the past few months I have taken a leave of absence from the blog-o-sphere.  I have been spending my time applying to graduate schools and hassling professors.  Next September I will be pursuing the most lucrative of post-graduate degrees: a graduate degree in philosophy.  I am excited to pursue my interests in the field and warp the hell out of young impressionable minds.  In that vein I will begin this post by beginning with a brief hypothetical lecture on interpersonal relationships.  How fun!

Good day and welcome to a lecture on interpersonal relationships.  Today I will be discussing the strength of relationships by using requests as a measurement standard utilizing distance and degree as primary factors.  I will show that the level of the interpersonal relationship can accurately be measured by using the divergent point of willingness to make a request in regards to the inversely proportional degree of the request and directly proportional distance of the requestee formula.  So, young inquiring mind, what does all this poppycock mean?  It means that you can measure your friendships based on what asinine bullshit you are and are not willing to ask someone.

For the more keen-witted of those who followed my rambling you probably noted the obvious counter-intuitive bit as your eyes passed over the words inverse degree of request, and you may be thinking,  "So, you're telling me Cale that if I needed $5,000 that I wouldn't go to my closest friends first?".  "Nope." says me, I'm not saying that at all, you probably would ask those closest to you first, but what I'm saying is that it is irrelevant.  When you ask another human in your life for a substantially large favor it's because you really need the favor, not because you feel comfortable asking for it.  If you need $5,000 because you owe Gary "Leg-Breaker" McCready money you will probably ask every man, woman, and child available for the cash in order to avoid whatever old Gary is about to do to you.  What I am saying is that you can measure the strength of your relationship with someone based on the small favors you are willing to ask him/her, not by trying to avoid getting your legs broken.

Gary "Leg Breaker" McCready

Let's assume two hypothetical situations.  Situation A:  You are going out of town for four days, for some inexplicable reason you own a cat and you need someone to feed and sift poop for your feline companion.  Situation B: You are making a delectable chicken sandwich and you have constructed it to near perfection, but you realize that you are missing some hot sauce, and if anyone knows you, they know you love hot sauce.  If you are unwilling to ask your friend Carl for either of these favors, then I have bad news for you: Carl isn't a friend, he's and acquaintance at best.  However, let's say you are willing to ask your friend Betty to keep your cat alive and sanitary but not for hot sauce, then Carol is a good acquaintance or a low level friend.  The farther Carol lives from you the the stronger the bond is between you.  If you are willing to ask your other friend Sammy both of these favors, then Sammy is a good friend and like Carol, Sammy's friendship level increases based on the farther Sammy lives from you.  As the favors get smaller, the line where you are no longer willing to ask for your friend's (or acquaintance's) help determines how how high (or low) your friendship level is with someone.  

We can see through these two examples that it is by asking small insignificant favors, not large ones, where our true close relations are revealed.

Now, let's keep the inverse degree / direct distance principle of friendship in mind as we continue to travel through Baton Rouge.  My sister (whom I will henceforth be referring to as "Julia" because it is her birth name), Dave (Remember? He's that dude from Australia) and I (me!) were heading to a family reunion with a clan of unknown relatives.  We pulled up to the house, exited the vehicle in an orderly fashion, and sashayed up to the door and were ushered inside of a beautiful Louisiana house, in the vein that I described in the last post (adornment galore).  We did the rounds saying hello to the relatives that Julia and I recognized (Carol, Jim, and me Ma among a few others) and were introduced to the the rest of the Louisiana relatives.  We met cousins galore, their paramours, and little baby cousins scampering about.  The house was bursting with familial bonhomie, great weird sounding food, and good ol' college football on the tube. 

As Julia, Dave, and I made our rounds and our introductions the question of Dave (as in, who the hell is Dave?) was invariably asked.  So, I explained to each newly met relative that Dave was an Aussie friend of mine whom I had met the previous week in Austin.  As I verbalized the explanation, which had sounded totally normal in my head, it began to sound a little kooky.  However, not an eyelash was batted.  The prevailing sentiment was:  Dave knows Cale, Cale is family, therefore Dave is a quality human.  Being from a foreign land, he was cornered by relatives to who inquired of his exotic land of kangaroo and fun accents, but it all seemed to stem from a genuine interest into Dave as a person, his weird island home, and his wild adventure.  At least that's what I experienced from afar, I let Dave fend for himself as I engaged in college football speak with the television room crew.

Kangaroo
Dave comes from a land infested with these beasts. They may look domicile, but they are known to engage in pugilistic pastimes.

As we continued to mingle with the kin-folk I received a text from my cousin Dana.  She asked me to tell Aunt Carol that she was bringing some desert type food and to ask if they needed another type of food stuff.  I complied and texted Dana back with the appropriate response.  My responsibilities for the day had been accomplished.    Eventually the deep south delectables were set, the tardy relatives had arrived, and it was time to begin the Cajun feast.  We all joined in a circle, held hands, and said a little prayer in thanks for the bounty, both of people and food.  Then we all tore into the Louisiana cuisine like ravenous beasts, or at least I did.  Time passed in a blur as I stuffed my face with boudin balls, jambalaya, and 20-30 other swamp delicacies. 

After I had stuffed myself sufficiently, those of us tarrying forth to the LSU game formulated a plan to head to the game.  The Death Valley crew consisted of Julia, Dave, cousin Alissa (Jim's granddaughter), and a few of Alissa's friends in Baton Rouge.  We said our farewells to the family, received numerous bits of sagely advice of how to make the best of an LSU game day.

This is where the tale takes a sad turn.  I stopped to get gas whereas the intrepid Alissa trudged on ahead, bless her soul, to meet up with her friends.  And she was never heard from again . . . or at least we never saw her again.  We had lost a comrade in route, perhaps God had a different plan for Alissa . . .  or perhaps it was traffic.  Needless to say the three who departed for the reunion together were the three who arrived on campus together.

That is to say, eventually we arrived on campus.  Traffic was real bad and real weird.  Driving to downtown Baton Rouge is like a tour of economic disparity.  We drove through real run down neighborhoods, with poorly painted dilapidated houses, liquor stores, and cash checking joints lining the streets.  With the traffic being as horrendous as it was, we crawled through these neighborhoods at 10 MPH.  It felt like being on an educational tram ride of impoverished America.  Then there was an immediate and abrupt change of scenery when we entered the LSU campus.  The campus spread out before us as a vernal introduction into the more well to do part of Baton Rouge 

Traffic slowed down to 5 MPH as we drove farther into the campus as people (ourselves included) looked for parking.  We parked on the fairway of a golf course, because we real fancy.  The golf course was about a mile away from the campus and provided a great introduction for Julia and Dave to the SEC football scene.  There are enormous grasslands that would be out of place in the layout for most colleges, however on Saturday game-day their utility was fully realized.  They act as enormous parking lots that Tiger fans utilize to set up their booze and food filled event tents.  The end result of all these cars parked on the grass has the feel of an enormous, and better stocked, back yard barbecue.

However, I will leave the description of this sprawling college scene for next time.  In this micro-post I wanted to emphasize the importance of relationships.  Did you pick out the sentence that encapsulated the theme (refer to the beginning lecture for the theme)?  I'll give you a minute . . . . . . The crux of this post was was the text from Dana.  Think about the last time you were heading to a party and had an obligation to bring either food or drinks, but the responsibility was vague.  I would wager a sizable bet that if it was a bar-b-que of an acquaintance you merely picked out what you thought was appropriate and headed to the event.  However, if you had a good friend at the party, the likelihood that you texted or called to ask about what to bring or offer to pick up something en route was significantly greater.  This comfortable, intimate atmosphere of close relationships was present throughout our Louisiana trip.  We encountered immediate acceptance as part of the family, despite how many trinkets we broke or the crazy hours we kept.

This will be the last time I emphasize the degree to which family is embraced in the South.  However, due to the long delay I wanted to ensure that is prevalent in your mind, dear reader, as I continue to tell the tale of my adventures in Louisiana.  Even as we moved throughout the football game there was a genuine sense of warmth that radiated from the people we met and it was infectious.  The people who we spent time with at the game became family for a day rather than party co-conspirators.

Next time you find yourself faced with a minor annoyance think about who you would be comfortable asking for help.  These are the people who you can count among your closest friends.  They are ready to loan you a shirt when you smell like a 4-day bender, keep your animal friend alive, and keep your shin bones unbroken and weight-bearing.  

How to Make a First Impression: Baton Rouge Part 2

The ability to make a good first impression is incredibly important.  It sets up a baseline for the entirety of a relationship, be it fleeting or enduring.  We all have the innate ability to quickly determine whether or not we will mesh with a person within the first couple of minutes.  The strength of a person's handshake and the amount of eye contact made in the first 30 seconds will give you an accurate representation of the type of person whose acquaintance you are making, don't you agree?  You do?  Well I call bullshit on that.  

First impressions are only important if they are the only impression.  If you meet someone once and then never have the pleasure of making their acquaintance again  . . . well then, yeah that is important by default.  If a relationship flourishes into an acquaintance or friendship first impressions are trivial.  We misrepresent so many social ques when we first meet someone.  Do you have a friend who is loud and sarcastic?  You probably thought he was a huge dick the first time you met him.  Do you have a friend with a dry, witty, subtle sense of humor?  I would bet dollars to donuts that when you first met her you thought she was an idiot.

So, what's the point of this?  The point is, that conversations are complicated.  When first meeting another human it is impossible to pick up on all the nuances of their character.  If a person is always candid, never sarcastic, and never subtle . . . well then your first impression is probably going to be pretty accurate, but who wants to spend time with such a person.  Not me, and hopefully not you.  

Brick Tamland
This, ladies and gentlemen, is Brick Tamland.  He's a man who loves lamp, he killed a guy with a trident, he has an IQ of 48, and he very rarely knows what we're yelling about.  This is the exact type of person that you can get a solid first read on.  There are no layers to Brick, what you see is what you get and what he sees is what he says.  Sure, it may sounds like a gas to have Brick as your friend, but it would be a nightmare.  Without a doubt he would be the creepiest guy in your group.  He would constantly be invading your personal space, he would laugh at inappropriate times, and YOU would be an accessory to murder.  After all, Brick killed a guy.

So, keeping that in mind that first impressions don't matter, allow me to present the story of meeting my Louisiana cousins . . . 

We last left me struggling to stay awake at a Pirate Bar in Baton Rouge.  I was chatting it up with Lauren and Jordan, but sadly my night was coming to an end.  After some hugs, individual not communal, I said goodnight to Jordan and Lauren.  I was tired, and fortunately my cousin Dana had a room for me. 

I     pulled       up to the house around 7 or 8 and I yelled to the cabbie, yo homes smell ya later.  Wait, that's not accurate, it was 12 or 1230pm and I had been my own means of conveyance.  I crept around to the backdoor, like the shady character that I am, and knocked on the door.  A groggy cousin Madalynn, whom I had clearly woken up, answered the door and was kind enough to let me inside.  Brittin (Madalynn's friend whom I had also woken up), Madalynn, and I made quick "who the hell are you" talk, quick being the key word because we all decided that consciousness was too taxing.  We were all tired, you see.

Madalynn escorted me to the guest bedroom that had been prepared for me.  The room was ornately decorated.  Louisiana has it's own unique sense of style, and I kind of dig it.  It's a sort of Charleston meets Paris.  It's distinctively southern, but also distinctively Parisian.  Dana's house was ostentatiously decorated with miniatures, trinkets, and general adornment on, over, and around every surface.  This unique Louisiana style is the only, and I repeat only style where an inordinate amount of deelies actually looks pretty good.

Back to me, I was tired.  So I threw my bag on the ground, making sure not to smash anything, then stripped to my skivvies and hopped into bed.  I glanced a woman riding a parasol miniature hanging from table lamp's draw string, grabbed it,  and smashed the hell out of it.  Screw that woman and her tiny umbrella.  Actually, I had nothing against the woman, but I did smash the shit out of her.  I thought she was attached to the pull string, but I was either very wrong, very strong, or very both.  I gathered the pieces into a morbid little grave on the end table and went to sleep.

The next morning I awoke to my transgression staring me right in the face and felt awful.  I gathered the evidence and my integrity and marched straight into the kitchen.  Brittin and Madalynn were already awake and were chilling in the kitchen.  I looked Madalynn right in the eye, steadfast and unwavering, and said "I broke this."  Then I looked down at my shoes like 4 year old.  I'm going to get real for a second, real, real.  That was the guiltiest I have felt since . . . well since I can remember.  I have done worse things, oh man, I have done much worse things, but breaking that little parasol enthusiast made me feel so God damn guilty.  The only explanation I can think of is this:  I'm a weirdo.  Yep, that's got to be it.

Anyways, Madalynn screamed at me and Brittin cried.

Well, not so much.  I think Madalynn actually may have laughed at me (the nerve!).  She then chided me a little more by telling me that when SHE was a guest at another's house she would do their dishes.  The feminist in me was outraged, but I was picking up what she was putting down.

After some good-natured shots at my expense (at least I think they were good-natured . . . ) I went to find Dana to confess my transgression.  Her reaction was much the same as Madalynn's.  Pretty anti-climactic as far as story-telling goes, so moving on . . . 

I loaded myself back into my car and began the trek to have breakfast with my sister, my mom, Jim, Carol, and Jim's brother.  It was delicious, uneventful, and there were errands to run.  My sister had also decided to stay with Dana and Madalynn, so the chore for the morning was to get her settled, so back to Dana's.  It was time for my sister to meet more of our Louisiana cousins

My sister's meeting with Dana and Madalynn was less destructive than mine.  She didn't break even a single thing, and here I thought I had started a tradition.  Even before noon, Dana's house was lively.  Dana and Madalynn are both open, blunt, warm and vivacious.  I would even go so far to say they are as sociable as my sister and myself.  We are not exactly a taciturn tandem ourselves, but we are tempered by Northern sense of propriety.  They are not: honest and loud all the way, baby.  Both my sister and I also had the pleasure to meet Will, Dana's boyfriend.  Will was just as hospitable and kind as Dana and Madalynn, but played the straight man in the morning's show, cool and collected.  

My friends from North of the Wall who have never ventured down to Dorne may be a bit skeptical as to the extent of southern hospitality.  Allow me to present the following anecdote:

Public Service Announcement:
I have included the preceding map to illustrate the previous allusion.  As you can clearly see based on the political map of  Westeros, "North of the Wall" is far to the North, and "Dorne" is far to the South.  Now although it may seem that I included this visual representation to help to elucidate the point for the those who haven't read or watched Game of Thrones, but that is merely an ancillary effect.  The point is this, if you didn't understand the reference, what the hell are you doing with your life?  There are certain pop culture requirements to be a fully functioning member of society.  Game of Thrones has reached the pantheon of mandatory viewing/reading material that is currently occupied by: Star Wars, Harry Potter, and Lord of the Rings to name a few.  So, if you haven't experienced Game of Thrones yet do so and fast.  You are letting everyone in your life down, they are just too polite to tell you.

The Anecdote: While we were drinking coffee, talking loudly, and laughing frequently I received a phone call from a friend familiar to both you and me.  Dave the Aussie had made the trip from Austin to Baton Rouge and was chilling at the bus stop.  Exciting yes, but it didn't really jive with the plans we had for the day.  The Louisana cousins, of whom we have only met a fraction in the tale, had decided to throw a big ol' family hootenanny.  I still planned on picking Dave up from the bus stop, but I had no idea what to do with my wandering Australian friend.

I told the group the story of Dave, about our adventures roaming the streets of Austin, and how he was currently waiting for pickup at the greyhound station in Baton Rouge.  Will and Dana both gave me very distinctive looks.  Dana looked at me like I was an idiot, and Will with more concern than I thought the situation deserved.  Dana said, as if it were the simplest of solutions, to bring Dave to the reunion.  Madalynn concurred, and I was hesitant.  Back up north, the thought never would've crossed my mind.  I would have dropped Dave off somewhere while I mingled with my family and met up with the foreign invader later.  I definitely thought that they were just being polite so I declined, but they would not hear of it.  So, my sister and I took off to grab Dave to bring him to our family reunion.

But remember, there were two distinctive looks, why did Will look so concerned?  Before we left for the greyhound station Will told us that we had better hurry.  It turns out Will was was not exaggerating the peril involved.  The greyhound station was in the worst part of any city I have ever seen.  Broken down cars, boarded up houses, and liquor stores riddled the landscape.  We executed a snatch and grab, no joke.  I would've been more comfortable skyhooking Dave out of that God forsaken place, but alas I didn't have a spy plane and Dave had forgotten his helium balloon aparatus.  So instead, I pulled up my car, Dave ran in and we got the fuck out of dodge.  Dave said, in an Australian accent, that after he got off the phone with me he went outside to wait.  An incredulous security asked him what he was doing, and in no uncertain terms told him to wait inside or be willing to forfeit any guarantees of personal safety.  Crazy.  Ass.  Shit.

Once we had traveled a fair distance outside of that terrible place, my battle focus turned off and we relaxed into an amiable conversation.  I introduced my sister to Dave and the two got on like peas and carrots.  Next I inquired if he would care to accompany us to a family reunion.  I'm pretty sure he thought we were kidding.  I replayed the scene from Dana and Madalynn's and how insistent my relatives were that he join us at our family get-together.  Dave thought it was ridiculous, hilarious and definitely something he should experience.  At the very least, it would make for a quirky story when he returned home.

Loaded and ready, we had our collected sight set on the reunion, but that is a tale in itself.  Spoiler alert: at the reunion we would meet more fun and exceptionally friendly folk.  The family experience down in Baton Rouge was unlike anything I'd experienced before.  When you're family, you're in.  When you're friends of family, you're in.  The awkward period that usually accompanies a burgeoning  relationships is waved.  You are instantly granted access to: getting made fun of, getting asked to help with chores, passing messages (ie: tell so and so that we are going to be late), and an environment of unbridled acceptance, warmth, and love.

The South is weird, man.

Pirate Bars and Honey Jars

After a rejuvenating night in Houston I hit the road, Baton Rouge or bust.  Contrary to my laid back sensibilities I was burdened with a responsibility, what a buzzkill.  Fortunately my task was picking up two of my favorite people from the airport, my mom and my sister.  I utilized the following bit of backwards planning to extrapolate what time I must leave Houston in order to execute a punctual pickup of my kinfolk.  Feel free to check my work.

1.) My sister and mom's flight is estimated to arrive in Baton Rouge at 7:25pm
2.) Flights will occasionally arrive 20 minutes early, so I had best plan on arriving 30 minutes early at 6:55pm
3.) It takes approximately 4 hours to travel from Houston to Baton Rouge by automobile
4.)Traffic exists in this world, so I had better plan on a 30 minute delay in the trip

Solution: If I plan for 4 hours and 30 minutes of driving and I want to arrive in Baton Rouge by 6:55pm I will need to leave Houston by 2:25pm.

So, I left Houston at 2:25pm.  I know what you're thinking, you're thinking, "Cale, that logic is air tight, you stud, utilizing such exceptional deductive reasoning there is no way that you would be late for pickup.  Good job buddy!"  Well my friend, first thank you for your kind words, and second you would be wrong.  What I didn't take into consideration for my planning was the Atchafalaya Basin Bridge.  Now for those who are ignorant on the subject of American automobile bridges, the Atchafalaya Basin Bridge is an 18.2 mile bridge approximately 20 miles west of Baton Rouge.  While those facts are interesting in themselves (bonus fact: it is the 6th longest automobile bridge in the world) the interesting relevant fact is that once on a bridge it is near impossible to exit.  Let's say for example there is a car wreck on the bridge, it would be incredibly difficult to clear the wreck from the road, and also incredibly difficult to bypass as a motorist on said bridge.

This was not a fictitious example, I ran into (pause for effect) a car wreck along the Atchafalaya.  As I crept along I-10 I was fiddling with my phone.  I am not proud to say that at this point in my life I was still using the iphone map, so decided to shake it up a bit and try out Google Maps.  The google maps madam (whom I have named Linda) immediately informed me that I could exit in a mile and save myself and hour.  I followed Linda's advice and I have been listening to her sagely advice ever since.

Let me say this in its own paragraph in order to emphasize its importance.  Google maps is a game changer in travel.  Linda can save you hours when driving by utilizing her algorithmic brain to analyze traffic, pinpoint accidents, and guide you back onto the path when you've gone astray.  Also, as I found in Europe, even when you disable your phone's internet google maps can still be used to find your current location and give directions.  How is this possible?  I have no clue, blood sacrifice, chanting, and divination would be my guess.

Having only lost 45 minutes in traffic, I was again moving at a respectable speed towards to the pickup.  At 7:05pm I received a call from my sister, they had landed and were about to disembark from the plane.  Shit.  Even with a moderate level of disregard traffic laws, I was still going to be late.  I had failed my family.  They were forced to wait 10 minutes until I finally arrived at 7:15pm.  

This brings up the second valuable lesson that I learned along the drive from Houston to Baton Rouge:  Never attempt to pick someone up from a transportation hub (plane, train, bus, etc.) if you are more than 2 hours away.  In retrospect I should have found a way to be at most 2 hours away the morning of pickup.  I didn't and I was late.

I finally pulled into the arrivals corral at the Baton Rouge airport and greeted both family types with a hug.  I asked about the trip and then instantly regretted it.  It is not a topic suitable for this blog, but it was not a pleasant experience.  Having sufficiently set the conditions for an awkward car ride, we set off for cousin Carol and Jim's place in the outskirts of Baton Rouge.

We arrived to a toasty warm greeting from Carol and Jim.  Carol is my mother's first cousin and she regaled us with childhood tales of my mother and the Louisiana cousin's escapades on our family farm in rural Wisconsin.  The tales all had a Tom Sawyeresque sense of good old fashioned rural mischief.

Carol and Jim were both vibrant and warm people, and their overall jovialtiy belied a depth and richness of character.  I feel that many who have lived their entire lives in urban settings have a tendency to see rural folk as uncultured, uneducated simpletons.  In my experience I have found this to be miles from truth.  Carol told tales about her time in Saudi Arabia and her and I discussed cultural differences between the West and the Middle East.  Carol was also an avid painter and frequently volunteered as a role player for military and police exercises; she was a decidedly badass woman.

Jim was an absolute character.  He was a self described coonass and was quick to quip with colorful Cajun sayings.  He was fluent in a Cajun style of French with a dialect that is so unique that is nearly a different language from tradition French.  Jim was a pilot, having served in the Air Force and had stories enough to match his wife.  Ah, I nearly forgot to mention the food that greeted us when we arrived.  There was fruit and honey that was harvested from Jim's apiary, and sausages homemade by a family member.  Nearly all of the food and even some of the alcohol that we enjoyed was made from scratch by Jim and Carol or a friend of the family.

A quick interlude: The farm to table trend has recently taken hold of urban settings and has quickly begun to permeate into the suburbs.  However, for people who live in rural environments this has been a way of life for generations.  Growing up in a household that was one generation removed from the farm I took for granted all the fresh meat, fruit, and condiments I was lucky enough to enjoy straight from the source.  Cultivating natural sustainable food sources a way of life for my relatives from the country.  Everything from sustainable beef, wild game, apples, maple syrup, alcohol, and even hops to name a few are raised on Bakken and Hilleshiem land throughout this fine country, and it's all top notch.  Urbanites are finally able to appreciate the higher quality of food that I have been consuming for years.

The rapidly advancing night, strain of air travel, and sufficiently full bellies were leading my sister and mom towards sleep.  I had been drinking caffeine saturated beverages for going on 8 hours, so sleep was not coming any time soon for yours truly.  Luckily I had a good friend who was out in Baton Rouge with his lady friend, so I bid a good night to everyone, and rode my caffeine wave down to the the Acme Oyster house to see what shenanigans they were getting into.

The Acme Oyster House is an institution in the South and has a smattering of locations along the gulf coast.  The most iconic Acme is located in the heart of New Orleans and is known for its shrimp, wait no . . . its oysters.  I met Jordan and Laura at the bar (good man, there's a reason we're friends).  We told stories, we laughed, we knocked back a few Abitas, and ate tray after tray of big beefy oyster.  When our oyster limit had been reached we decided to head to one last establishment for the night: the Cove.

The Cove is a beer and whisky bar with an enormous selection of both.  I've been to many a bar in my day, but the Cove may have had the largest beer selection of any bar I have patronized.  Upon entering the Cove I was greeted with this:

The Game of Thrones Beer Series
This exists in our world and the world is better for it.  Unfortunately on this night the beast eluded me.  However, on a recent trip to Atlanta I was able to get my hands on the Three Eyed Raven release.  Was it good?  Sure was.  If you see it, stock up my friends, because winter is coming.

A Game of Thrones beer?!  How the heck had I not heard of this?  It was a combination of two things I loved, and I would be able to drink it.  Unfortunately, I wasn't able to drink it.  The Game of Thrones beer series by Ommegang Brewery were released in limited quantities and it seems that people were as excited as I was for it and ordered it all up before I could try it, the bastards.  The cove did however have a nice selection of flemish reds (one of my favorite types of beer), so I was only mildly disappointed.  The inside of the Cove was weird.  Picture a pirate themed 10 year old's birthday party smashed together with a whiskey lounge and you have an accurate conception of the Cove.  There were nautical implements and jolly rogers adorning the walls with leather high-back booths.  It was an odd atmosphere, but it had beer and a lot of it so it was good in my book.

The beer was leveling out my caffeine high and I was beginning to crash, so I bid adieu to Jordan and Laura.  I was off to find my bed for the night at a new location, but that story can wait until next time.

And now a few insights:

1.)Google Maps should always be the primary navigation tool
2.)Always abide by the 2 hour pickup rule
3.)Generosity of character does not preclude depth of character
4.)Game of Thrones beer exists

There you have it.  My family and I had safely arrived in Louisiana and were welcomed with open arms and open tables.  This theme of hospitality will act as a motif throughout the entirety of the Louisiana adventure.  Southern hospitality is taken incredibly seriously in the bayou.  Family is accepted without reservation and with and outpouring of generosity.

I would like to end by congratulating Jordan and Laura from the tale on their recent engagement.  So . . . Congratulations you crazy kids!

Friday Morning Shakes and Friday Night Lights

I threw Austin into my rear view mirror as I would an empty bottle of 14 year Belvenie, not drunk mind you, but with fond, hazy memories, a mild sense of ambiguous regret, and a pleasant taste in my mouth.  I left Austin (sober) and headed for Baton Rouge to meet up with some family I knew and some family I didn't.  That plan and those fond memories lasted for all of I'd say 5 miles before the hangover came a knocking.  I decided to shorten my course and head for Houston.  I made a call to my good friend Ben (from the Badgers in Tigerland fame) to see if I could crash for the night.  He graciously acquiesced to my request and he and his lovely wife Alyssa offered a to put me up and to put up with me for the night.  

The Silver Second Hour:
The Silver Second Hour is an immutable rule of the road trip and it goes as such:  When driving an extended distance whilst hungover one must be able to make it at least two hours on the road before stopping or else the likelihood of reaching the final destination falls from 95% to 10%.  This figure assumes that A.) the driver is driving alone on the trip, B.) there is a soft deadline, and C.) the trip is more then 5 hours.  These figures are mitigated by a number of different factors, such as: if there are other passengers in the vehicle, if there is a hard deadline that must be reached, the ability to achieve the perfect caffeine to discomfort ratio, etc.  I made it approximately an hour before my head and stomach working in tandem forced a stop.  As we all now know, based on the Silver Second Hour, it was not my fate to make it to Baton Rouge on this day.

Now it goes without saying that having friends is one of the great things in life, but having friends dispersed along the route of a road trip is even better.  Having friends as generous and hospitable as Alyssa and Ben is true God send.  Yet the true pièce de résistance is having friends of the interesting type with varied and unique hobbies that are the precursors to a story, which this is, so here's the story.

Ben is a referee for high school football in the great state of Texas.  It was Friday night and wouldn't you know it, Ben had a high school football game to ref.  He asked if I would like to tag along and get the behind the scenes access for a high school football game.  I did indeed want to do that, so we did indeed do that.  

I arrived at the LeBlanc household before Ben and had some time to settle in and exchange niceties with Alissa and make meet their furry roommate Layla.  A few tummy rubs later, Ben returned home and quickly grabbed his hanging uniform and a sports bag.  We hit the road and headed down to the stadium.

Houston confuses me.  It's huge and weird.  The city center is smallish with 5 layers of suburb, so getting from the 'burb to downtown is a substantial trek.

A substantial trek later we arrived at the stadium.  Television shows such as Friday Night Lights and movies such as Varsity Blues will lead you to believe that Texas high school sports stadiums are the size of college stadiums.  Perhaps they are larger in other cities, but the Houston stadium didn't blow me away by its size.  It seemed only marginally bigger than the stadium that I played in in Southern Wisconsin.  What did blow me away was how nice it was.  There was clearly a large amount of money invested in the stadium.  The seats were college quality, the locker room appearance was beautiful, there was a jumbotron which was at the time the largest for any high school stadium in the nation, and so on, and so on.

Friday Night Pre-Lights
Check out the size of that screen.  Geez.

We were allowed to enter the side gate as Ben flashed his badge and I was ushered in like a movie star's floozy.  I was in the big time now, baby.  We went into the locker room, which was (shockingly) huge and quality.  The refs had their own side locker room all to themselves.  I was granted access to this inner sanctum that few non-ref types ever get to see.  I was immediately greeted with a bevy of old man wiener and butt.  Nice, being a military man myself, it really made me feel comfortable.  After that lovely greeting, I was introduced to the faces of the team of refs.  They were a group of real nice blokes who were totally cool with a random dude milling about as they stood around naked.

I like to create an interactive experience as much as possible as I'm writing.  So, interaction time!  I am about to pose a question that I want you to think about and answer inside your head before continuing.

How much time before the game started did we arrive at the stadium?

Do you have your answer?  Good, the actual answer was 3 hours, and Ben was the last one to arrive.  Literally for 3 hours before the game all the way up to the coin flip these guys were prepping.  Sticks were applied to places (still not exactly sure what was going on with those sticks), hydration salts were consumed, shoes were polished, uniforms were checked, double checked and triple checked.  It was, well . . . it was impressive.  I can not imagine NFL referees being this dedicated and professional in their preparation.  The banter as well was hysterically appropriate.  For three hours all these guys talked about was past calls, that guy from that one team who said that thing to that ref, and what they would've done to that coach if he would've done that thing.  It was quite entertaining.

Game time finally arrived.  Scratch that, just before game time finally arrived. After a brief ref/coach meeting we headed out to wander aimlessly around the field while we waited for the players to make their entrance.  The entrance that Texas high school players make is significantly different than anywhere else I have seen.  Between the time we entered the locker room and the time we reemerged two gigantic inflatable tunnels had been inflated.  According to Ben these inflatable mascot/tunnels cost anywhere between $10,000 and $20,000.  They were apparently a point of pride for the schools and it was public knowledge who had the best and who had the worst.  

A few players emerged, a coin was tossed, and they all returned to the locker room in diametrically opposed levels of enthusiasm.  A few more minutes of waiting and then . . . .boom 16, 17, and 18 years olds came flying out of NFL caliber tunnels, thus signalling that kickoff was eminent.

I randomly chose a side to creep on, stood a few feet away from the team, folded my arms and tried to look like as little of a creeper as I could.  Then again being a random old dude in a T-shirt, lingering on the sideline made limiting my creepy factor an enormous task, but the folded arms helped.  After a few minutes into the game I introduced myself to the other two adult, non-coach types on the sideline and told them who I was and what I was doing there.  They were the principal and wife for the team whose side I had arbitrarily chose and we engaged in an on again off again conversation throughout the game, which was quite pleasant.

A quick observation must be made; high school students are tiny.  No matter how big you thought you were in high school you were nothing but a large child.  These were kids in pads and it showed.  Granted, once the sun went down and the lights came up they looked less like kids because of the ambiance, but kids they were.  It was a bit of a shock to my memory seeing these top tier Texas high school football players, some of whom were indubitably playing at a D-1 colleges next year, look like children.  I thought I was pretty big in high school, apparently I wasn't, but I suppose memory makes rock stars of us all.

Friday Night Lights:
Children, they're all children.

When you have a friend who's reffing you pay significantly more attention to the lawmen on the field than your average fan.  Ben ran his freaking ass off.  I would put dollars to donuts that Ben ran more than anyone else on the entire field.  He was the young buck of the refs, and I'm sure he was in the position he was because of that, but God damn, he got one hell of a workout.

The game ended, someone won (I wasn't really paying attention to the game.  I had no horse in this race, ya dig?) and we headed back to the locker room so Ben could get cleaned up and out of there.  

Ben got cleaned up, and we got out of there.  We decided to stop and grab a drink and a bite on the way back, so we swung by your neighborhood bar and grill, Applebee's.  The food wasn't great, but the beers were big so it wasn't a half bad meal.

We talked about the game because we're guys and . . . football.  Eventually we began talking about Houston in general.  It was interesting to hear Ben's take on Houston.  It was much as I had expected given the vibe that Houston had put forth, but it was articulated much more succinctly by a local.  I will attempt to summarize.  Houston is huge and the LeBlancs lived in the suburbs which was 40 minutes from the social part of downtown, so they hardly ever made it down(town).  Most of the suburbs in Houston had developed anemic social centers out of necessity because of how much of a hassle it was to get downtown.  In order to become part of the community you had to make a real effort in the suburban social life, which they had playing softball and the like, but if you missed a season you were sort of out of the loop.  

In Austin (which is my reference for everything, so deal with it) there are relatively few suburbs, if people in the city live in the 'burbs it's either Round Rock or Georgetown.  This means that co-workers that live in the suburbs have a 50% chance of living in your 'burb, so there is always someone you know who is nearby.  Not so in Houston, there are so many self contained suburbs in Houston that you might live near nobody you know or work with, and because of how much landmass Houston takes up it is a hassle to travel from one 'burb to another.  So people rarely venture out of their own self-contained suburb.

We finished up another few beers and decided to call it a night.  I can honestly say that it was one of the most surreal nights I've ever had.  I think it is rare to ever be a completely impartial observers.  On this night I had no responsibility in the event, no stake in the game, and I had free reign of the stadium; it was absolutely cathartic.  It was an interesting mix of familiarity, remembering when I stood on the sidelines as a 16 year old, and spectacle as a stranger witnessing the Friday night lights in Texas for the first time. I wandered around lackadaisically focusing on nothing while all of those around me had a laser focus on the game.

By the end of the night my head was clear and my body was back to business as usual.  I think I may have stumbled onto the ultimate hangover cure basking in those Friday night lights.

Here it is, the ultimate hangover cure: Stand in the eye of the hurricane . . . or the tiger.  It's the thrill of the fight.  Risin' up to the challenge of our rival.  Wait, what was I talking about?

The Long Kiss Goodnight: Austin Conclusion Part 2

Let's get right to it . . .

Place Number 15: Midnight Cowboy: The holy grail of bars in Austin.  It is a hidden cocktail lounge owned by the masterminds behind Alamo Drafthouse.  There is a strict 2 hour time limit, no flash photography, and drinks that will make you wonder what the hell was that swill you've been drinking your entire adult life.

After the brief explanation it was easy to corral the team to Midnight Cowboy.  Who can resist the charms of an exclusive, hidden, speakeasy style cocktail bar?  Nobody I want to meet, that's for damn sure.  Now when I say that Midnight Cowboy is hidden by Jove is it hidden.  The brilliance of Midnight Cowboy's location is that it is hidden in the heart of the touristy district known as Dirty 6th.  After 15 minutes of searching, we sheepishly slid into the Alamo Drafthouse to ask for directions.  In order to protect the sanctity of the establishment I will nay divulge any of the defining characteristic of this magical place, however, even after it was pointed out (literally the helpful young lady at the Alamo took us outside and pointed directly at it) it was still difficult to find.  Very sneaky midnight cowboy, very sneaky indeed.  

We asked a man on the street if we were in front of the fabled Midnight Cowboy not realizing he was the nonchalant ninja doorman for said establishent.  He told us to wait outside for a minute while he checked occupancy.  He proceeded to open the steel metal service door and the solid steel security door to have a peek inside.  He reemerged a few moments later and said we were cleared to enter.

We entered a dimly lit hallway with mega-highback booths flanking us from both sides.  The booths assured absolute privacy for all the patrons and the dim lighting made everything seem . . . more interesting.  I had the distinct impression that every person in every booth was a captivating, interesting person.  I guess highbacks, a claustrophobic setting, and dim lighting casts an aura of self-importance . . . that and an ever increasing level of intoxication and overactive imagination on my end.  

We were led to our booth, took a minute to gawk at the surroundings, and were greeted by our bartender.  Bartender seems to miss the mark a bit here . . . these guys were more akin to alcohol sommeliers.  He handed us our menus, explained the rules (see above) , and then excused himself for a moment to retrieve his tools of the trade.  A moment later he returned with a multi level pushcart with squeeze bottles and a plethora of alcohol then inquired if we were ready to order our first round.  I think he could read our mild apprehension and feeling of being mildly outclassed on our faces, because he began asking us each in turn questions about different types of drinks, alcohols, and flavors that we liked.  

He didn't exactly make recommendations as much as he made conclusions from our answers, and then said the the names of drinks he was about to make.  It felt like our choice in the matter had been rendered null and void.  In fact I don't exactly remember ordering anything, he said something (I'm assuming less for my benefit and more for his own) and then started making a drink.  A little muddling, shaking, straining, and stirring later we all had a drink in front of us.  Each of us lifted our glasses, someone said some amusing words, and we cheersed.  We clinked, and I took my first sip.  Wow, was the only thought that went through my head.  The drink completely relaxed me.  It was though I had drank a a glass of post-hot tub relaxation.  We hailed the drinks as incredible and gave our heartfelt compliments to our master alchemist.  

This is a picture of your imagination.  Midnight Cowboy is better than that.  It is better than you can imagine, punk.

After a little while we fell back into conversation and went over the rest of our plans for the evening.  Brandon, fellow advocate of the old fashioned and bartender at Firehouse had suggested another craft cocktail place called Half Step on the far reaches of Rainey Street.  We agreed on a plan to venture to Rainey Street and toasted once again  Our cocktail crafter interjected for a moment and asked us if we were heading down to Half Step.  Being the attentive reader that you are, you know that we were indeed.  He then offered to take 15% off of our bill if we would deliver a new simple syrup they had been developing down to Half Step to get their take on it.  The discount was well and good, but we had been entrusted with a task to deliver this Wavy Gravy to Half Step.  We had a moral responsibility to get it there safe, it was no longer merely a night out it was a journey, nay, an adventure.  From that moment until the safe delivery of simple syrup we had become the Fellowship of the Wavy Gravy.

Our mount of choice for the journey were a couple of ol' Austin three-seater bicycle carriages, a pedicab to those in the know, and a rikshaw to my friends from the east.  These man powered vehicles splatter the Austin nightscape and are never more than a block away.  They come in varying levels of obnoxiousness ranging from the simple bike and wheeled loveseat to music blaring mobile laser light shows.  We opted for for a couple of the more subdued versions and ventured forth towards Rainey Street.

Having successfully evaded the Nazgûl, we dismounted and entered the Half Step.  Heads held high, we presented the Wavy Gravy to the barkeep.  He turned and added it to table filled with doppelganger squeeze bottles and told us that the two bars did this little exchange quite frequently, and we thought we were special . . . What a buzzkill.  Task completed, we ordered a drink and headed outside to enjoy the beautiful Austin night, but before I continue . . .

Place Number 16: Half Step: A craft cocktail place that occupies a place in the pantheon of Austin craft cocktail bars.  Bartenders rave about it across the city and it is . . . good.  Just good in my opinion.  It is in an old gutted house much like its neighbors on Rainey Street.  Every place on Rainey Street looks like a 3 bedroom family house and it is one of the most unique streets in all of the Austin.

Across from the bar there was a decidedly Austin sight: the food truck park.  We perused the fare and I decided on a miniature bag of donuts that were made through a Rune Goldberg type miniature frying device.  How fun.  With the night quickly waning, we had just enough time to grab two of my favorite, incredibly alcoholic drinks on Rainey Street.  Perhaps not the smartest decision at this point in the night, but definitely necessary.  

First up . . . 

Place Number 17:  The Blackheart:  A New Orleans themed rockabilly whiskey bar.  The inside has the feel of a wild west brothel with the walls adorned with vintage (as in first photograph era vintage) black and sepia erotica.  This place has an incredible back patio, which is one of the best places to catch a band in Austin.  The whiskey selection is extensive and it has the best non-brandy (sacrilege!) and most expensive old fashioned in Austin.

We made the visit a quick one, we were on a timetable you see.  We grabbed some drinks, did a quick tour of the inside and outside and guzzled down our drinks.  The Blackheart definitely deserves a longer linger than we had time for, but we had one last stop on the trek.

Place Number 18: Icenhauer's: An outdoor oriented Rainey Street meeting spot.  The drinks are strong and the backyard fire pit is the perfect place to meet new friends and engage in awkward conversations.  

Ah, Icenhauer's: home of the Emily.  Who is Emily?  She is the most dangerous drink in the city.  Emily is muddled strawberries, basil infused syrup, a dash of lime juice, and a whole lot of Tito's.  No joke, this drink is 80% vodka, but it tastes like a basil sprinkled strawberry.  Emily is the perfect drink to end a night.  Let me rephrase that, Emily will end your night.  It did, we drank it and then (I'm assuming, my memory is a little hazy on the specifics . . . ) time warped to the next morning.

This is a picture of Emily and a knee.  Disregard the knee, but be wary of Emily.  She is amazing, but dangerous.  As Taylor Swift says, " . . . the high is worth the pain."  Don't say I didn't warn you.

The next morning Dave, Andrew, and I groggily emerged from our bunks and did a quick recap of the previous night.  Andrew and I said farewell to Dave as he left to continue his own journey.  I dropped Andrew off at the airport and we sealed the end of the Austin experience with a bro-hug.

 . . . And that's a wrap for Austin.  I feel honor bound to state that all of the events in the Austin experience took place on a Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday.  This was Austin during the week, during the weekend this city gets even livelier and even more vibrant.  This is one of the many, many reasons why I love Austin, it is always alive any time, any day.  The people are great, the bars are inventive and unique, and the food is great and plentiful.  To be honest, the only thing Austin is lacking is a brewpub/distillery scene, but it has started to make an effort.  However, that is one very small demerit, and it's trying bless its heart.

If you haven't been to Austin go . . . soon.  It's changing so quick that this guide may already be irrelevant, but Austin will always be great.  The places will still be there but the crowd may have changed.  So, saddle up, fasten your belt buckle and mosey on down to the best dang place in all of God's green Earth.