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.

The Long Kiss Goodnight: Austin Conclusion Part 1

The long kiss good night . . . such a romantic euphemism for murder.  When I think of the phrase it sets the mental scene of a gun for hire in a dark hotel room.  He's sitting on the edge of the bed with a slight slouch to his spine agonizing over the kill of a close acquaintance.  Years of memories flash through his (or her, gender your imaginary hitman as you like) eyes of intimate conversations, barbecues with families (there's always a barbecue in my head), and other such cliched flashback shots for conveying a close personal relationship. The relationship becomes more tenuous in the montage and there is a clear sense of a fall from grace of the to soon to be murdered (murderee?)  Then, through much mental trepidation and a lament building in his soul, the hitman stands up resolute, dons his duster, does a quick check on his pistol, cocks a round, puts on the safety and strides out of the hotel room with his brows furrowed and his eyes straight.  He leaves the door open for effect, because he's a melodramatic son of a hired gun.  The final shot is a fixed camera angle looking into the hotel room as he walks by and the shot lingers with the empty bed in view now only lit by the open door and street light bleeding through the window.  The scene doesn't break as he walks by, but stays focused on the empty room for five long, hard, pensive seconds.

This is how I felt about leaving Austin.  Not the bang bang kill kill murder a friend part, but it was a marked end of a chapter in my life.  I hated to go, because I knew it was the last time I would see the place as my city.  We had grown apart and it was time for us to head down our diverging paths, Austin had already left me behind and it was high time I continued down my path.  I have put off writing this final two part conclusion (two part conclusions are all the rage these days)  on Austin for an exceptionally long time, because although the chapter is finished, this officially closes and shelves the book.  So, here is part one of the two part conclusion that I call The Long Kiss Goodnight.  Enjoy.

We rejoin the three travelers, myself, Dave the Aussie, and Andrew the Aussie, traveling down the Colorado River away from an anthropmorphic Johnny Cash song towards South Congress.  We are in search of a restaurant for our last meal in Austin.  We found it.  It was this place:

Place Number 12: Perla's: A South Congress seafood staple with a relaxed gulfshore feel.  It is home to the best patio view in all of SoCo and some killer seafood to satiate a sea life carnivorous craving.

Perla's on South Congress (As seen through the eyes of a voyeur)
This is Perla's at its only inconspicuous time; while it's closed.  Once the doors open there can always be people found on the patio drinking Pimm's Cups, enjoying the bounty of the sea, people watching the motley crew of foot traffic on South Congress, and talking about the best way to jibe a sailboat.

Following our surreal conversation with Folsom prisoner number 52743, the Aussie's and I swaggered into Perla's for some mighty fine fixings.  Perla's is a gulf shore transplant relocated to the north end of the SoCo scene.  Everyone not wearing a pastel striped polo or a sundress looks out of place in this little slice of the gulf. Seriously, there is teal everywhere and a mounted marlin inside just to set it over the edge.  I have never been out back of Perla's, but I expect there is a marina moored with yachts and sailboats with seasoned deep sea fisherman regaling landlubbers with tales of the deep blue below.  You can almost smell the ocean spray as you walk onto the patio.  They have those trendy mist sprinklers on the outside to enhance the effect.  How's the food though?  Terrible. Ha, just kidding, it would be monumentally disappointing if a place put this much effort into its ambiance had bad seafood, but luckily it doesn't. In fact, it has in-freaking-credible seafood.  Their bouillabaisse is one of the few foods that I crave.  It is like eating a veritable trawling net of delicious creatures boiled in saffron infused olive oil.  The sauce is so good you could drink it, which I did . . . with a straw.  We ate, we drank, we shared amusing anecdotes as we watched the sunset over South Congress.  While the conversation remained vibrant, the sun faded and was replaced with large-bulbed string lighting.  We took this as our cue to return to the hostel and wash the saline sea breeze from our skin before we embarked in our final night in Austin.

While we were freshening and getting as the kids in the 00's used to say "so fresh and so clean" Dave uttered these magical words, "Mates, I'm going to take it easy tonight, probably just grab a drink downstairs and call it an early night." Now, in the entirety of human history there has never, and I repeat never, been an uneventful night after those words were spoken aloud.  This is the fun-tastic kiss of death.  Tonight was going to be great.

We began our uneventful, dull as dishwater night at:

Place Number 13: CU29: A great craft cocktail bar located just far enough off the beaten path to never be slammed with people.  Great bartenders, great drinks, and copper on every corner.

This is an example of a hand hammered copper sink that can be found in the restroom of a bar in Queens.  The bar of  CU29 is made of this hand hammered copper and its quite incredible.  You may be asking "Cale, why don't you show a picture of the actual bar from CU29?"  First off, mind your own damn business, but to the point . . . because I forgot.  Trust me it's beautiful, or better yet check out the dang place and see for yourself .

We started the night innocuously enough by heading for a drink at CU29.  It's a quiet, dignified place with great drinks, great bartenders, and one particularly fine beard.  It was the perfect place to watch President Obama's ISIS address.  Do you remember the address?  Yeah, I hardly do either.  The President spoke for approximately a half an hour and managed to say next to nothing, which was expected I suppose, but at least the drinks were good.  If you're feeling a little nefarious and a hint spicy try El Dueño.  It's a mescal drink that's dark as sin and will make you feel like a bonafide (albeit successful and  classy given the surroundings) old west train robber.  You can feel the phantom six shooter at your hip after the first sip.  A couple of drinks later we were ready to saddle up with the James-Younger gang and take down a train . . . or head back to the Firehouse.  We decided to head back to the Firehouse.

Place Number 14: Firehouse Hostel Lounge (Wednesday Night Open Mic Night): The infamous bar behind the bookshelf.  A card holding member of the society of elite bars in Austin, great drinks, interesting international crowd, and a Wednesday open mic night that will rock your socks off.

The Firehouse Hostel hosts the most famous open mic night in all of Austin.  It is known for attracting local Austin and visiting artists of the audible variety for their rendition of industry night, music style.  Signup begins 3 hours in advance and the docket is filled roughly 2 hours and 59 minutes before the mic officially opens.  We strode into the lounge and saddled up the bar as the first act was starting and true to the billing they were incredible.  (Almost) Everyone was incredible.  Our bunkmate, Jordan was inspired by a traveling British musician to get up and try his pipes in front of a mic.  Coincidentally, a week prior I had met the traveling musician at this very bar.  We had a long discussion about the current state of marriage where I was force to take, as shocking as it may sound to my close friends, the side of a more traditional view on marriage (I argued for love man, for love in this crazy world).  She was an interesting lass indeed to make my views on marriage seem traditional.  

A Brief Bakkonian View of Marriage in the Modern Era
Please oblige me as I digress into a tangent on the relevance of marriage in the modern day.  I, Cale Bakken, believe that marriage is as relevant today as it has ever been.  Not only are the betrothed able to say to each other that I love your stupid face so much that I want to spend every day for the rest of my life looking at it, but goll dangit I want there to be a room full of people with us so they can all partake in the overflow emotion we have for each other.  The situations are few and far between that we can come together to celebrate something as powerfully positive as love and I  don't believe that it should be marginalized.  The aspiring British alternative siren's argument against marriage was that it is unfair to require someone to commit to another for a lifetime, it's selfish and unrealistic.  To which I retort, not if it's reciprocated, then it's an officially and publicly celebrated institution built on trust, understanding, joy, and of course mutual attraction (wink wink).  It is as essential today as it ever has been and should remain (although altered in its definition) an integral part of our society.  Celebrate love baby, not nihilism.

Now that I have been exposed as a helpless romantic, let's return to Jordan.  He did indeed do an  . . . interesting spoken word, that was not awkward in the least, not in the least . . . But kudos to him for trying something new (and it was painfully obvious that it was new to him).  It took more chutzpah than any of the rest the bunkmates of room 201 had.

Where are my manners, allow me to set the scene at open mic night, the place was a mixture of European hostelers, some of the trendier local Austinites, and a bevy of musicians.  The lights were turned down low, because low lights equal class and attracts starving artists like a fish fry attracts Wisconsinites.  The Aussies and I mingled with the crowd, I proselytized the gospel of the brandy old fashioned, and we met our new friend for the night Leah.

Leah was local Austinite whom frequented the Austin music and was a regular performer at the Firehouse open mic night.  She had recently returned from UC Santa Barbara where she had been a D-1 cross country runner.  I believe she was about to head off to Stanford to save the world . . . what a slouch.  Leah had decided to tag along with us for the night.  The Australian accent has real power in the United States, and I was privileged to be allowed to watch it spin its spell.

Back to me, I had bonded with the bartender, Brandon, over the finer point of the old fashioned (brandy, not whisky you brute!).  I was feeling chummy enough to ask for his expert advice on places to patronize on our last night.  He dropped a fully weaponized mind bomb straight into my brain bunker: since it was a Wednesday, we might . . . just might be able to get into Midnight Cowboy.   *explosion noises* .  I told the Aussie-Austinite gang about this incredibly fortuitous news and they stared at me blankly.  Surely you know of this fabled establishment?  No?  Well then, allow me to explain . . . .

 . . . Next Time, in Part 2 of The Long Kiss Goodnight . . .