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.