The Ticking Timebomb

Days 55-61

When I'm home, I get so specifically lazy. I don't know what it is, but I just go back into watching cartoons and eating, and playing on the computer, and if my trampoline were still assembled, I'd go out there and just lie down on it. I can drag myself out of any bed in the world, except for the one in my old bedroom, no matter what bed it is, it could be made of hypodermic needles. So when it came time to wake up and visit my grandmother, it was so hard to break my own will and levee, that I intuited a foggy and groggy attitude influencing me, a thing that I believe exists for certain people in specific personal locations. Or maybe I was just beat, I have been getting into all kinds of shit.

We went over to my grandmother's house for lunch, and it is as home is, comfortable, and friendly, and relaxing. I feel really badly about some of the trips home that I take, because I run around and do all this immature stuff and work myself to a point where when I finally arrive at a place that I can relax, I get sleepy and lose my garrulous manner, and it makes me look as if I'm bored, and that is not the case by any means. If you see me sleepy, and losing the will to converse, it is either because you are trying to teach me boring facts, or I'm extremely comfortable with you. I hope that it doesn't come across as selfish, but I suppose for all the conjecture, I'm only battling with myself and know the right answers and right things to do. Thanks for listening. Anyways, I had a lovely afternoon just straight chillin' at ma grandma's, ha!

I would just like to take a moment here to recall a moment I am reminded of that perhaps, may characterize me a little more, for those of you who may read this that don't know me as well as you thought you did. Or it may not, but it is in my head, and I can do this kind of thing on my time.

When Armando Benitez played for the Mets, he had great success, but also several failures, and as many players do, they fade and it becomes hard to give up on them since they still show fleeting moments of excellence. He became kind of known for blowing saves, despite his ability to occasionally shut it down. Later in his tenure with the Mets, his entrance into the game was akin to shaking hands with the opponent, saying, "Good game, we'll get you next time." He got traded or released and the Yankees picked him up. By this point in my fandom, I had started to join Red Sox Nation, and had managed to put that extra stinger into the growing list of reasons my father is disappointed in me. I kid, but he cheers for the evil empire, so the disappointment is mutual. So when one day, I was napping on his couch in his presence, and the Red Sox and Yankees were playing in 2003, the year I was catching the fever. The Yankees were ahead and Benitez came in to seal the deal. Though barely conscious, my body surfed on gentle energy waiting for the inevatable to happen. Benitez was always a ticking time bomb, some times he'd make it to the blast chamber in time, and many times he wouldn't. I was cocky. I said to my dad, "that's the ball game." I can't remember the details, but it was a classic meltdown, and he finally blew it, and the Red Sox won. I raised my hands in victory, eyes closed. The Yankees losing was going to make for a great nap. My dad blacked out the TV in disgust. As he once told me, "It takes ten 'attaboy's' to make up for one 'Awww shit.'"

Time came that I had to leave and make it to the city. Every time I'm in New York City, so many things have to happen. I fall into my old time management pitfalls, and I usually come up short on some meeting or another. Not enough time here, wish I could stay, but... It's too high energy, I get stressed out there and that causes me difficulty in regulating myself. I went to see my pops and his lady, and left after too short a visit, but at least got it in, and then made movement for Duncan's place. We are writing a screenplay together and had been planning this writing meeting for a few weeks, so it was a priority. We did a little catching up, and when we finally put ourselves to it, we started operating on all fours, man. It surprised us both how productive we were for not having worked in so long. We've had entire writing meetings that have amounted to next to nothing, and here, in his new performance space former garage apartment, we jammed out the last quarter of the screenplay in one night whereas the rest has been stretched over two years! I guess we already knew how it would end, but it took surpassing a few mental blocks and rejecting a few good ideas before we seized on the ones that made us both erupt with excitement and laughter at how right it felt to write that thing. It went a little late, and it was worth celebrating, so we took his sweet dog Theo for a walk/beer run in the delightfully sketchy DUMBO night, and returned to his pad for some self-congratulating. This completed task brings us about 65% of the way there, with 80% of the creative work done. *Dances like broken robot*

The next day we tested it out on Duncan's girlfriend and sister as an audience. We were looking for holes in the sum, and seeing if we had as strong a narrative as we were assuming we did, and the results were positive. We aren't done, but we've got a winner. It came time to get up to Boston, I had a few affairs to settle.

I expected to crash at my old house in Brighton, but I was assuming that the task would be a great deal easier than it proved itself to be. I didn't remember that I'd have to experience the charm of the MBTA in Boston considering I had the old Timebomb sitting in the pedicab shop. The Timebomb is the name we gave to my beat up, rusted single speed bike that developed this ticking noise in its drivetrain, and we all expected it to go off at anytime. I instantly imagined arriving, catching quick T connections, and getting to the shop with my two bags in relative haste. Instead, I waited and debated with myself in that old MBTA way about which method of transit would be the most expedient. Forty minutes later, I'm at the shop. I unearthed the Timebomb, lubed the chain, and cursed Shane for not having purchased a new tire to cover the exposed tube up when he had borrowed it for over a month. He actually rode around with tube exposed for well over a month, and replaced the tubes, not the tires. Mechanically speaking, this is fucking idiotic. Whatever, if he rode it around like that for so long, I bet that it would get me to Brighton.

Shane is skinny man. Not to say that I'm fat, but I got a few of the ol' el bee's on him, and I was carrying baggage. I left the shop and took off down familiar West Newton. Not halfway down the first block, I hit a small crack in the pavement, and what had to happen finally did. The tire blew out. You can only put Armando Benitez in the game so many times...I screamed the name of the reason for this. "ShaaaaaaAAAAANNNNE-UH!!" I decided that I could still ride it to Kenmore and catch the 57. Even riding slowly on a flat tire would get me back to Brighton faster than walking. I made it about 3/4 of a mile before I realized I left my goddamned motherfucking laptop in the shop, secured, alarmed, and shut in. So I rode back. I got it. Then I rode back towards Kenmore. It's one of those moments where you have to laugh at yourself for looking so stupid. My ass is burning up in the coat and weighty traveling items, pushing this sad cycle about 5 mph, aware that I'm about as effective as a pack mule riding a seeing-eye pony, but at this point, it's too late-I'm committed to the bit. I finished my precarious ride to Kenmore Square and deliberated for about a minute on where to lock up the Timebomb. I choose a post on the South side of the square to abandon my bastard bike-child, and walk to the bus stop to catch my last leg about twelve minutes later. South Station to 21 Bennett St, 1 hr, 35 min. Kill me, I'm in Boston. At least I have oral surgery and the Registry of Motor Vehicles to look forward to tomorrow.

Oral surgery was kind of a breeze. Sit back and don't freak out that they are poking around on the bones that used to be your teeth, forget that they are connected to your nasal bone structure (which is also fractured and will be fucked with), and don't think about the things they are doing to regenerate gum tissue and graft bone so they can sink screws into your head and anchor teeth on them. Just listen to them teach you about it and pretend it is someone else. Pretend like someone you know is poking at your face to kid around for about an hour, and it's kind of funny because you can't feel it. Also don't fret that it's going to be over a thousand dollars out of your pocket. Money falls out of the sky. It really tells me something about myself and, perhaps if I extrapolate, the world, that I had a better time at Dr. DerKazarian's office than I did at the RMV, trying to return my Mass tags, and I got in and out of the RMV in about 20 minutes.

In order to obtain my pedicab chauffer's license in Texas, I was advised that I needed to procure my certified Massachusetts driving record. I was told I could get it from the Watertown RMV, but was advised that I can only obtain a certified copy, which was what I needed, at the office in Quincy. I took a second to process my oxygen, and said OK, no problem, I'll just nail a Zipcar down. There's an app for that. As it turns out, this app is useless except to make funny beeping noises because it doesn't eliminate the need for a plastic card at all, which I thought it did. Without the plastic card, you cannot open the vehicle, and you cannot proceed with your reservation. What I could have done was tell him my card wasn't working, and they could have opened the car remotely, but they have information protocols, and I can't be trusted. More scrambling for the T. It's about 3:40 and I need to make a big walk out from the N. Quincy T stop by 4:45, so I was scrambling for the T again. I love the stress of being on a corner were you could grab one of three T buses as soon as they showed and make progress, and I got to wear that energy at N. Harvard and Western until the 86, quite possibly the worst of all possible bus lines, rolls by and whisks me to Harvard to swiftly hop the correct red line train to Braintree. He's feelin' the flow, kids.

Only being back in Boston for a short time brought a lot of memories back, and the North Quincy stop was no gentle stroll down memory lane, but more of a necessary barefoot run across painful gravel to get back to smoother surfaces. It was here that I once pathetically and urgently came to try and salvage the relationship I was in with my ex-girlfriend. After ditching out on a scheduled week-long trip to New York with my good friend J, the breakup was overwhelming my ability to enjoy or even do anything. It was one of the hardest emotional experiences I ever went through. It feels strange to mean it when I say I didn't realize how much I had loved her, but I guess how trite that is can be measured against how she was my first love, and you only get good at anything, especially relationships, by learning from failures, and as an aside, I feel like I'm getting good at a lot of things, relationships included. It was here that, for the first time in our relationship, I had come to meet her at work two days after our official breakup, and we walked her long, run-down Dorchester walk to the North Quincy T-stop and waited in a shelter for the train. I waited near the same shelter to return on this day. We had talked all the way to her exit stop, and I felt better just to see her. I felt like a delicate house again where I previously resembled a chaotic pile of dirty chopsticks. Memories spur other memories and I involuntarily summoned the turbulent broken up period where friendship was a lofty goal that only fooled us back into heart rending passionate sex, only to get rejected all over again, and the fastest six mile bike ride I ever cycled on the heaviest bike I ever owned when she called, crying, at my doorstep. And the killing of it all. And why I was in Boston at all. All this coursing through me while waiting for the T after having successfully attained my driving record to help myself pedicab in Austin. I like to play the sequence of events game. D happened because of C and C because of B and B because of A. You can really pick out the major moments of your life with this game.

When one visits a former hometown, one is burdened with the unfortunate task of plucking out only a few out of potentially many people you'd like to see. My solution to this is usually to introduce everyone to each other in one location, and though not always a winning scheme, it played on this evening where I managed to get Sokly, Nate, Shea + Damien, and Kate to Deep Ellum for some sleepy beers and catching up. It's a fluttering, serene, doping high to settle down with a few important people you haven't seen in a while, and no amount of exhaustion in me could ever stop me from finding energy for this to be, like when they find dehydrated people in the desert that somehow still have tears to cry for the joy of their rescue.

Man, I have stories from this trip and anywhere I go I can entertain with one or two, and so with this realization, I'm more clearly identifying things in myself that are carved out into my personality. I tell stories. I choose words carefully, but start the sentence without knowing how it will end. I speak some sentences slowly because of this. I reflect people and cultures, absorb and emanate. I have patience in a grand scheme and frustrate quickly for small stuff, and am training my mind not to. I'll always be a New York driver, so I'll always speak to other cars. As George Carlin ingeniously discovered, "The amount of an asshole a person is is directly proportionate to the distance away from you they are at the time you discover that flaw." In searching for the proper clip, I found the wrong relevant clip of George Carlin on cars. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8beHUQbIC8A&NR=1 One of the true masters.

I sprang forth from my old Bennett bound leather couch, and made Logan airport with smooth connections. I had a swollen mouthed attempt at breakfast via the awkwardly positioned Dunkin' Donuts that was wedged into the space between a few columns. It's almost too airportish to actually be in an airport, more like in a movie of an airport, but not "The Terminal" because that movie sucked. I mashed a few hash browns into my gullet and got on the plane, relieved to be leaving the cold, the hollow stalactite buildings of Boston, the Timebomb in Kenmore, my dating history on the red line, my stifled desires on Bennett Street. I took a half look at my neighbor as we left the ground, looked out the window and the gray-blue runway, shut the window and teleported to Austin, mellow and refreshed on arrival.

The whole time I was away, I though about Wednesday coming, being back in Austin, and the idea that on that evening, I would be hanging out with the blonde beaut at drag queen bingo, as we had discussed when I broke it down that I made plans to watch people speak words quickly to rhythm. I talk a lot about whatever is on my mind, and I was thrilled and cynically amused that I dropped into Austin and already this hot blonde, as if this place was magic and my palatability to the other sex magically changed in this sphere of weirdness. I went ahead and told my mom and my grandmother and my father and his girlfriend about her and what I knew and that she is an escort. Yup. She seemed to be really down with it, and really have a handle on her business, and wasn't about getting paid to fuck, cause, you know, neither was I, I really can't afford to fuck like that, but if someone needed beautiful company capable of charming, she could oblige. I'm no moron, I wasn't ready to believe that it's so easy, I've learned that lesson the hard way in remedial lesson learning, having failed out of the course "Lesson Learning 101" at Community College, also having since TA'd the course at Yale, while having illicit trysts with a few of my hotter, struggling students. Perhaps, my metaphor has said too much? My point here is that I'm not ready to get taken for a ride, but it's nice to see high standards yield results, and I was excited about it. So when she flaked out on Wednesday night, I took my roommate to Drag Queen Bingo instead and swore off the blonde stuff for good. Winning a set of fake mustaches and sideburns can go a long way in forgetting flaky hot girls.

The weekly social ride was set to happen on this Thursday night, so I got ready to go, and couldn't really get anyone else to task, so I rode down by myself. On my way, I caught someone else and ventured the guess that they too were going to the Scoot Inn to meet up for the ride. Friendly enough, we introduced ourselves and she led me there. Damn, that was a lot of bikes. I let some intimidation guide my actions, but soon I realized there was a lot of camaraderie and that anyone could really talk to anyone. I picked out some guy who said something or other about Boston, and I perceived an opening. It turns out, as I am at times an overzealous Red Sox fan, we had met previously when I commented and complimented this guy on his Sox hat while we temporarily biked together along Barton Springs Road. His girlfriend, also on that ride, grumbled about all the transplants that invade Austin. We laughed when we realized we had met, and he bragged that for all the complaints of transplants these Texas girls might have, they love an East Coast boy. She wrinkled her nose and smile-frowned at this. He then made out with his girlfriend. I took heart in this.

This interaction opened me up to the spirit of the ride. Before the ride began, while unlocking my bike, a guy offered me a shot of his "Feckin' Whiskey". I chatted with them for a while and got the digits of one of the guys because I wanted to catch up to the end of the ride since I intended to peel off and meet up with Chad for a bit. Conversation along this cruise is fun and fleeting, and a little bit like what I imagine speed dating to be, except with more speed, and it's OK to talk to the other speed-dating guys in between dates. This ride went all over a dark and sort of creepy East side, into parks, and up and down vacant major thoroughfares, protected by the ride leaders keeping a lookout for cars and upholding order towards traffic signals, and the sheer number of bikers. Some dude had a giant speaker hooked up to his bike on a pull cart and blared some jams for everyone, another guy had a similar rig with a large trash can on it so everyone could throw away all the PBR and Lonestar cans they had tucked into their messenger bags. So awesome! It was responsible mayhem that stood in stark contrast to Critical Mass rides, where it seems to be full of youngsters on ca-ray-zee bikes with anger issues that are only assuaged by this excuse to rage and wave U-locks in a threatening fashion at people who own cars for legitimate reasons. Even though I was the victim of a hit and run by a yellow SUV later that very evening, an infuriating and painful experience in its own right, I still firmly believe there is no reason to foster such outrage. Polite organization can achieve the same ends or better without incensing the non-biking population and reflecting poorly on those of us who do not need to kick your car door in for your internally combusting, oblivious ignorance. One day, it's gonna be too much and somebody could die. Armando Benitez.

I returned from meeting up with Chad to have a beer at the snack Bar and one at that Ego's place. I sang a song, and got some Wisconsin girl's number based on how she is a Packers fan, and then went to meet the end of the social ride at Creekside Lounge. Nothing special, really. I had been collecting phone numbers in an attempt to broaden my scant social network in Austin, and like a farmer at harvest time, had more than I knew what to do with, except I wasn't going to sell the phone numbers at a farmer's market. OK, so my similes aren't always perfect, they are like your boss, I hope-qualified and makes a point. BOOM!

Before I reveal this next episode, let me first apologize to my mother for not telling her, I knew she'd freak, and I was just fine anyways. So here goes...

So I closed this place out and started riding home. I didn't have far to go at all, I think the globally positioned estimate is 1.4 miles. I got up to E 12th street and mind you, I'm in my neon green pedicab hoodie, so seeing me is not terribly difficult. Additionally, my reflector under my seat is not obscured at all. I make it past Chicon Street, so I'm feeling pretty good about not getting shot and robbed at this point. I'm faster than any crackhead running after the crack truck, so we're pretty much home free. Down a hill and up a hill and down a hill and left is all that's left, and that should take about a minute and ten seconds in real time. I'm on my way up this hill, in the bike lane that starts as soon as one turns onto E 12th Street, and a car is coming up behind me. I don't think much of it, I'm visible and in the bike lane, but it rolls up next to me and here is where time slowed. I watch this yellow behemoth getting closer so I start braking as quickly as you pull your hand away from fire, but there's not enough time, not even in slow time, and it's turning directly into me. I'm hit. The back wheel of the car stomps on my front wheel and now I'm flying. I'm not completely clear on what happened next, but I like to test my powers of deduction, and here's what I've come up with: With my trajectory going forward, and my arms bracing myself for impact, the stop vaulted me forward a good deal slower than a clean hit. My feet came out of my pedal straps rather easily, though I could tell by the muscle ache in my one shin that there was some resistance-a good thing considering it was another factor in the decrease of my speed towards the SUV in my path. The sum of this force versus resistance put my other shin at handlebar level, cracking it and scathing some skin off, missing the SUV entirely as it continued on. I landed, I think after considering my injuries, by breaking my fall with my right knee and left hand, a stiff neck keeping me a free thinking individual, but not full out preventing facial impact a little bit back of my left eye, towards the ear, but so, so close to blindness and extreme pain. I think I went unconscious. The next thing I saw, through astonished pain, was a man looking down at me. He was black with a chinstrap beard, a hat, I think. He had a slight drawl, and he said this: "I can tell you what happened for five dollars." Can you believe it? I was furious even though I ought to have paid for the details, but I sent him off in a very New York way saying, "Are you serious? Get the fuck outta here!" I called 911, a cop came, she asked if I wanted an ambulance, I declined. With the front wheel now a taco stabbed by a broken fork, I walked my bike home on the back wheel, my shoulders starting to scream with pain, the whiplash setting in already. I timidly crawled onto the couch like a domesticated pet trying to die alone, ashamed to be seen, thinking before sleep, "I can't believe this happened." But I guess I have to believe it, these are facts. I now own and religiously wear my bike helmet.

I was immersed in stalking pain, the sharp bolts of it gripping me, dictating my actions, feeling like I was snapping bamboo bones to lift my head. I told Nick what had happened and he was assertive in convincing me to get checked out at the hospital. I didn't know if my insurance in Massachusetts would cover my incident, but I decided that it was less important to be covered and more important to be okay. I think it did get covered, and lucky for me, I had been holding out on my recently prescribed, dental pain related vicodin, and now had a justifiable reason to start popping them again, and a great excuse to catch up on some of my Hulu queue. Fucking asshole made me miss the fun on Friday. Thinking about it, I'm upset that they drove away, but considering I'm still alive and fine, and I can think as clearly as I was before, my anger loses its edge, and I think they were probably drunk and scared and didn't want to go to jail. I find myself sympathizing with them, but I also don't know anything about that person just like they don't know that they didn't manslaughter me with a side of DUI.

On Saturday, even though I had drugs, I hesitated to take them. I researched what I was prescribed by my amazingly beautiful Dr. and didn't like the sounds of the side effects. I only took the vicodin early and rode that out until my muscles loosened up later in the day and gave me a better range of motion. Chad picked me up that evening because I wanted to get out of the apartment, it depressed me to be confined. It was his friend Berto's birthday, and we were going to his party at the Shuck Shack, which I shall heretofore refer to as the Suck Shack because as a bar, I think it sucked. I got into the car Chad introduced me to his friends Jo and Matt. They were drinking 4 Loko, the ridiculously caffeinated malt liquor beverage. Jo mocked me for not drinking any of it, but it was fine, I explained to them what had happened and silently lamented that asshole behind the yellow disgrace that cost me $255 in wholesale repairs to my bike. They finished their 4 Loko's after parking and went in to sit down at the Suck Shack around a table outdoors. I decided I should try to hold back on the drink. Jo mocked me, but I held strong for a while. We were there so long, and the food was absolutely terrible...I caved. IPA, please. I mean come on, you know a place is simply terrible when fries are the most appetizing thing you can put down on the table, and I can wrap my mind around eating all kinds of garbage.

The whole time we are at the Suck Shack, I'm talking to Jo. She's super cool, very attractive, totally Texas and has a FWB thing going on with Chad and I'm down but the conversation is super playful, we are jabbing at each other with pretty healthy cuts, nice beefy insults are flying, and it's clear that we'll get along fine. I'm feeling pinched though considering I don't want to offend Chad by flirting too freely. I proceed with the brand new person bonding resolving not to let it come to anything. This mind is stronger than the one that drinks, though it was not always like this. A former roommate of mine who freely offered, nay, subjected me to therapy, told me that I had an achilles heel and a fatal flaw. Drinking the heel, women the flaw. The person be damned, but I think highly of his ability to recognize and guide others towards a better way, yet I disrespect the manner in which he would thrust his paradigm on everyone inside his vocal radius. These sessions behind me now, the trap arguments now bygones, the differences now moot, I see myself better in situations like what happened at the Suck Shack and all that followed. A younger me might have gone for it, friendship be damned, but this person in 2010 proceeded to tie one on with everyone to the point of potential judgement impairment, and won the KIT award for Keeping It Together. It's an award that I am frequently being nominated for these days, and yes I am aware of the frightening running list of drinks I'm keeping.

We had a large crew that developed, and I don't know what it is, but the young professional class here in Austin somehow slants crazy, I think it might be because they are in many ways outsiders to the real culture of Austin. I was sober so I drove Chad's car over to East 6th Street to go to The Good Knight, an excellent cocktail bar. So I'm about to park Chad's car and one of the girls that has joined our entourage for the evening, the British one, volunteers to stick with me while I park the whip. So I can't always summon the accent, and this time I didn't quite butcher the English accent, but it wasn't great and she did NOT appreciate it. She actually called it really bad (not just pretty bad) and I had to spend a few minutes of damage control on that. OOK, you don't want to just roll with it, fine. Strike one, though. FYI, we're gonna punch out the Austonite female young professional in a later post, but oooohhhh yyyyeeeeahh, they go down swinging.

Inside, the atmosphere was great, the conversation flowed naturally, the male to female ratio kept everybody on their game, and Chad and I bounce well off of each other, so throwing game became effortless. The game throwing actually stopped and turned quip fest. I traded numbers with two of the girls, "bumping" one of them first, which made the other jealous, and we all friended each other on Facebook. Coolyo, new friends, rawk. Berto's crew has caught up to us, escaping the Suck Shack alive, I am pleased to report. Sticking around got a little boring, so the impetus to move started brewing and fermented very quickly into the idea to go dance at Beauty Bar.

We've picked up Melissa, another of these young professionals that Chad knows, and now SHE is the sober one and drives several of us to the bar, parking underneath I-35. Honestly, we ought to have walked, but no mater now, the car is parked. Inside of Beauty Bar, it is a hipster dance party so I helped myself to a PBR. For some reason on this night, I was loving the scene here. My second visit was not so charmed. Only about an hour or so here before it wrapped up and Chad starts leading us off into the downtown concrete. We're going to a karaoke bar. Three of the five of us are bewildered, but follow anyway. Jo bumps into me and brushes, loops arms, all this. Several too many blocks later, we are quickly ushered into a professional looking building, and march up some stairs into a karaoke lounge with private rooms. They put the five of us in a sound proof box and soon a bunch of six packs of Lonestar longnecks show up. Town is where we all went to. Sloppy drunken karaoke to each other melted into an extended five person singalong, sitting and standing. Jo and I sat next to each other for most of it, arms pressed against, touching, though there was plenty of room to have space.

The check got cashed out, and we minus Chad and Jo who cabbed to Chad's, walked back to Melissa's car, or where it should have been. Apparently, there is no parking under the I-35 overpass after 3 am. It's 4:30 am. We ask the attendant or someone just hanging around, and it's clear that her car has been towed. Oops. But here he comes to save the day, some random 60 year old dude in a Dodge Duster. He knows where cars get towed to, in fact, that's why he's here! Just trying to make some unlicensed gypsy livery money. At this late hour, I don't even give a fuck, I'm high on my good fortune for the trip, so I'm ready to hang out with this guy and have him take me home. We haggled for a $20 ride and we all get in to this thing. It's just kind of asinine as a vehicle, it should have died years ago, but we went and dropped Melissa off and then Matt and then me. Matt and I split the cost since Melissa nobly absorbed the towing expense. I talked to the guy a lot and took his number down, noting him as "The Problem Solver". Oh, I'll have more problems in the future, but I don't think I'll ever call that guy again as long as I live.

Statistics:

$24 total on a circuitous ride home in a Dodge Duster
5 iced coffees on completing this post
8 at Austin Java in the latest session
25 days behind in my journaling
20+ phone numbers acquired
$5 Amount that was requested of me immediately after being hit by a car.
3.13 Armando Benitez's career ERA
$18 estimated total spent on the T in a 33 hour period.

Drinks from...

Day 55

324 Sierra Nevada Celebration Ale @Dad's
325 Sierra Nevada Celebration Ale
326 Brooklyn Lager @Duncan's
327 Brooklyn Lager
328 Brooklyn Lager
329 Peak Organic IPA
330 Peak Organic IPA
331 Peak Organic IPA

Day 56

332 Corona @some DUMBO taco shack
333 Sierra Nevada @Joey's in Brighton

Day 57

334 High and Mighty Beer of the Gods @Deep Ellum
335 Green Flash IPA
336 Punk IPA

Day 58

337 Live Oak Pilsner @Jo's Downtown
338 Firemen's #4
339 Live Oak Pilsner
340 Lonestar can @home

Day 59

341 Live Oak IPA @Frank
342 PBR can @Scoot Inn
343 PBR can
344 shot of Feckin Whiskey outside of Scoot Inn
345 shot of Feckin Whiskey (somewhere on East side)
346 Busch can in some park
347 Stash IPA @Snack Bar
348 Lonestar @Ego's
349 Lonestar
350 Corona
351 Lonestar @Creekside
352 Lonestar

Day 60

Nothing

Day 61

353 Fleur d'orleans @Suck Shack
354 Stash IPA
355 Hanky Panky @The Good Knight
356 Firemen's #4
357 PBR @Beauty Bar
358 Lonestar @Silhouette
359 Lonestar
360 Lonestar


Next: South by Southwest approaches and I still don't have a pedicab license.

Weird Words From Austin

I didn't really wake up on the 18th of February, so much as I opened my eyes from shivering, and was reminded that I was in Texas by that giant fucking star I parked in front of. I couldn't make myself sleep anymore, not even with the car turned on, and I feared that, since I occasionally could smell gas when I vigorously pump the gas pedal to help start the mother up, and with the wind as it was, that if I did sleep with it on I'd potentially suffer carbon monoxide poisoning and die, and I certainly didn't want that. Dead on the side of the road at a Texas rest stop. How inglorious, irrational, and ironic as a final resting place. Caffeine.

I sped west on I-10, still no daytime treat, just a lot less deer. There was an accident. I took the service road to avoid it. I pulled over at a gas station to have a little nap. Why do I mention this? They were the most momentous things that happened to me on I-10.

I motored around the outskirts of Houston and got a look at that city from the distance, and from the look of it, I'm not at all disappointed in having skipped it. By this time, I got a call from this Chad fellow who I've never met, but my friend Kyle in LA has hooked me up with him for a place to crash upon arrival. I let him know I'm getting on 77, and I should be there in something like two hours. I get about halfway and need to gas up, and it was kind of time to eat since I vanquished my sad, cold, completely average leftover Thai for breakfast. Well heck, I'm in Texas so I should get some good 'ol bee bee cue! I walk into this place, and it's warm out so I've taken off my track jacket, and I completely forgot that the clean shirt I put on yesterday was the one I sloppily purchased for $5 or $10 in New Orleans that read "FU*K the Colts" with the U being the Colts' logo. I walk up to order without remembering what I'm wearing, and before I get a word out of my mouth, a man in his early 60's greets me with a coppery ribbiting, "Yew doan laaahk thu Cooalts?" I realize immediately that he disapproves of my shirt, and I backpedal on my purchase saying, "Oh this? I don't really care, I was just at Mardi Gras and I bought this for $5" "Mmmmmhmmmmm," he gurgled. It made me ashamed and slightly frightened because I knew that he knew that I was not from these here parts by the way I talked. I thought I might get a talking to until he followed up the thoughtful pause with a resigned, "Whattaya have?" He also didn't like that I ordered way too much and returned to the counter for a to-go box. But I can't blame him. He probably hadn't seen the word "Fuck" intimated in text form for quite a while.

As a stranger, Austin seems to pop up out of nowhere, probably because a lot of Texas is nowhere country. Before you see Austin, it feels like you are in the middle of nowhere. If I were lost and on the phone, I'd say to whoever was on the other end, "The only landmark I have is a cow! There's not even a fence around here! I'm near a road! Help!" And when you get to Austin, there is no overwhelming impression right away, not like I got from Houston, or New Orleans, or Miami, or anywhere, really. You've just arrived. You sort of descend into the Austin cityscape and its American commercialism, but soon the business fronts become interesting. Things seem original, attractive, unfamiliar, and inviting. Care has been taken to artistically design and impress people with no prior knowledge of what goes on behind that street front. I started taking video as I saw the capital building in the distance while I drove north on South Congress. I passed my destination while filming.

First thing to do, like a traveling bum, is park and eat everything I have in all my to go boxes on the hood of my car. Then I got coffee. I dropped into this place "Snack Bar" and I sat down and talked to this girl Kate. She was friendly and welcoming and makes me a really terrible iced coffee, and I hung out for a few minutes and go over to Chad's. I wandered all over the damned complex he lives in to find his apartment and get in and drop my things. I met his roommate Brent and after a brief friendly chat, I realize I needed more food. He told me about some places in the South Congress area so I checked out the bar next door, Doc's. I looked at the menu and it all seemed too expensive and not too appetizing, so after two beers and a weird bro chat with this guy Jeremy who invited me out to a special screening of a movie done by Brother Maynard of Tool. I left for Snack Bar again. I ordered up some food and it turns out, it's all organic and really good. I was also wearing my pedicab hoodie here and a guy there, Ben, mentions to me that he went to Berklee. We talked and discovered a large community of people that we both know, most notably my former roommate Eruch. Suddenly we are buddies and I'm down with like all the kids at Snack Bar, who are all hipsters and musical and whatever, and I think to myself, "cool I found this joint by accident," not yet knowing that Austin is completely full of places like this, and people as friendly as that. I have a few beers there, and one of the girls working feeds me a new one I haven't tried in this sort of pouty flirtation that seemed to get nodded or shaken off by a dude who I think goes out with Kate. It was like that moment where you telegraph to your friend, "I know something about this guy, you do not wanna go down that road," except that guy didn't know me and I don't know why he was being all protective or whatever. I'm not there to confront anyone so I pretended like I didn't know what was going on and continued the friendly chat before going back to Ben's for a beer, then to have real sleep on Chad's couch. So on my first night in Austin, I developed a new network of friends and I hadn't even met my host.

I awoke the next morning with a dark haired man towering over me, introducing himself as he got ready to leave for work. I was bleary eyed and could barely sit up for a handshake, but at least I know what the guy I was staying with looked like now. He promised me the night before that he'd take me out for drinks the whole night to make up for being unavailable the night before. I didn't think it necessary, but he followed through, man. I met him and his friend and coworker Keith up by his place after taking a slice at Mellow Mushroom, and we started by walking to a bar called Lustre Pearl that boasted a huge outdoor space, and horseshoes. They had already been to a happy hour or two so he was a train on the tracks to Tipsytown, TX. At Lustre Pearl, I tried to pay for my drink, but Chad waved me off for making that attempt.

Keith had not yet checked in to his hotel, so we had to go to a hotel called the AT&T Conference Center Hotel, which made me shudder and think of the future where all things are named in such a fashion. Keith's room was on the 7th floor of the hotel, and so when upon arrival we found that the power had gone out in the hotel and that the elevators were out of service, we were told that in the meantime, we should go have a drink at the bar, compliments of the hotel. Music to our ears.

When we got in to the bar, we mentioned what the front desk told us to mention and voila; free booze magically appeared. As we consumed these drinks, and time ticked on, Chad began to go to work on the bartenders, and cajole Keith into exploiting the situation for a great deal more value. He had since traveled up and down seven whole flights of stairs manually, and this made Chad a little upset. If it was Chad in Keith's situation, he'd probably feign severe annoyance and explicitly ask the hotel what they can do for him in compensation for the punitive damages they were incurring. This conversation, and our overall degree of charm with the bartenders led to a great deal more free drinks, some of them being very fine Scotches. They were closing at midnight, but we were the only people tipping these tenders healthily, so that when it was time to close, we stealthily stayed put, and were served up two rounds of shots that went by the name of "Cuntpuncher". No joke. The freebies tallied to seven.

The night spun out of control, I tell you! We went to three more places, and the details go off. The Dog N Duck, Little Willy's, I think (where the motto on their signage for motorists to see states "Come Early, Stay Late, Remember Nothing), and the Kung Fu Saloon with Mortal Kombat III and fatalities all happened, and I lost my dear right bike glove. This glove has been magnetic to my person for so long, it's been lost and found at least three times before this, most notably returning to dear owner after having been left on the T in Boston. It was so sad to see it go, I thrashed around the Kung Fu Saloon for 10 or 15 minutes in disbelief. I complained about it and it's been annoying because there have been several instances since the disppearnce that I've needed coverage for my right hand. I feel like I'll still find it in some asinine place and say AH and dance around like a broken robot in a little circle.

The night ended as Chad had predicted, at the taco truck down the street from him where he purchased two orders of five tacos al pastor for $6 each for Keith and me, just to watch us drunkenly devour them and enjoy that we were having an experience he so revered. They were fantastic, and I made several trips back to that truck in vain, finding its hours to be in terrible discord with my own, and forcing me to a sausage stand on 6th and into friendship with a guy named Aaron who operates the stand. So be it, and good on it. Aaron's sober personality has become a respite into reason when I traverse Austin's version of Fanieul Hall. I have since discovered the actual operating hours of the taco truck.

I got a chance to catch up and actually chill at length with Brian Fahey, a friend from Boston. We toured the east side of 6th for a few hours and it basically turned into a barcrawl of sorts. In an act of raging generosity, he picked up a great deal of my drinks and the cheese plate we split at the East Side Show Room, including my (supposed) 300th drink of the trip. I started absorbing the scene over there and realizing that I liked it very, very much, yes I do.

As an odd job, Chad threw some work at me to paint his office. So I spent odd hours getting in there, rocking out with myself, coating the walls and trying to do the professional job I know I am capable of, as trained by the Biltmore Theatre Props Department on Broadway. Yes, I worked there at one point in my life. It was a weird and fortunate year that has propelled me to this point, playing music and edging the corners of a strange company's test preparation hub late at night, completely self-satisfied, and motivated to do a good job.

For several days, I had been looking forward to seeing Boston band and friends of mine, Pretty and Nice, roll through Austin on tour. I knew I'd have arrived here by then, and thought that I may be feeling rather friendless in a new place and this posed a solution to this problem. I planned on painting a whole lot the day of the show, and I rolled pans and pans of the chalky colors on until it was clear that my priorities weren't straight. I had to go to the show. Sure, I could just go and hang out and then come back and finish the job. It won't take too long at all. I'm nearly done, just slap the second coat on there, first coat there, there, and cover that up.

I took off for the Mohawk, the venue at which they were playing. I had been talking them up all week to the Snack Bar folks. When I walked in to the place, I liked the venue a lot, but I quickly got wind that Pretty and Nice hadn't yet gone on, and weren't going to for a while. This was fine with me because I hadn't envisioned the remaining tasks to be too difficult, so time felt supple. I was identified by Holden (of the band) by my pedicab hoodie, and it was clear that he didn't know I planned on coming/being there, though Jeremy (of the band) did. Holden's excitement warmed me. I found Jeremy and we several, the band, myself, and a few friends of the band, ascended to the upstairs green room to hang out. I met their lady friends and "bumped" iphones with one, and got the other's number the old fashioned way. Woohoo, new friends!

After watching a great, fiery-as-usual set in an unfortunately porous crowd, I assisted in some load out transfer of equipment before the revelation of going to eat at Taco Cabana. I had never been, but anything taco is up my alley. I piled into the van for a ride to my car, followed blindly without taking account of my receding surroundings, and ended up at a Taco Cabana far, far away from the office I had yet to complete. I felt so ravenous though, that I might as well have eaten with my hands. The salsa bar was so large that I wanted to scold it. Another one in the history of sad Taco Cabana goodbyes was said between Jeremy and I in the parking lot, somewhere out on Ben White Boulevard, I am fairly certain.

I am a man brought down by my own simplifactions. Just because you go get tacos, doesn't mean you go right back so quickly. Just because there isn't much work left doesn't mean you won't be torturing yourself with sleep deprivation. Just because there are only four rooms in a place and one was done and two were almost half done and one was more than half done, doesn't make it like there's only a little over one room left to complete. I worked from 3:30 am until just before 8 in the morning, fearing the arrival of other office folk seeing me there still at work, seemingly failing to complete the task on time, too tired to have imagined the excuse of waking up early. I used all the white primer/paint I had, and got two of the three white rooms completely done, but one only had the primer coat on, and some scattered double coating. Everything else was sufficiently completed. When Chad saw it, he had been in Houston and Dallas for the week, while graciously giving me the use of his resting pads, he said, "It looks great." He didn't care about the third office, and he didn't want to buy more paint. I felt weird not having completed it fully and professionally, and the hours I put in had exceeded the value to quality proportion that hourly pay scales are modeled on, but fuck it. I would receive my check over a month later.

Brian and I went out to the Independent Theatre in the East Side for a show called "The Encyclopedia Show". His friend Mike was in charge of booking and also performed in the show. I liked it on the whole, but certain contributors often went long and had gimmicks that quickly wore thin on my sensitive performance nerves. But for a few of the acts that failed to win my discerning applause, there were some that flattened me, nearly inspiring me to stand up and yell at them over silence or sufficient applause to stop doing everything else they do in life except for creating things like that, before remembering the social mores that have so slowly and painfully been sewn into the visceral underside of my skin through streams of high school, college, and "real world" faux pas. Instead, "I'm gonna get another Lonestar, you want something, Brian?"

After the show, I spoke with Mike and he offered me a spot in the next show in no uncertain terms. I got very excited at the chance to perform again, I knew I could rip up any topic they give me and give a focused, powerful comic performance, such as I have not often given myself a chance to do, but this trip has turned into a sort of self-gifted creative fellowship to myself, so things like this have become possible. The bungling of this offer has turned out, and it appears that I will not be on that show, but on the show in May with the topic of "Explosions". That'll do.

Everyone dispersed and I embraced a desire to hang out some more, so I tooled around the streets on the East side and saw just a massive amount of bicycles around. I felt like it was fairly friendly, if not disaffected territory, so I locked up and walked about. I saw a marching band practicing out on the street as many sat around watching in the cool air. I finally picked Shangri-La as the place I wanted to enter. Upon walking in, I bought a cheap beer as a punk rock band was finishing their set. I found a girl playing Mortal Kombat II and challenged her and kicked her pathetic ass. She was a nice girl. Immediately following that, the marching band filled the space with Balkan delight. I had found my new favorite place. I was also about to get my first healthy does of flakiness. Numbers are given freely because nobody here really wants to offend. Everyone wants to seem open to hanging out, but flaking out on returning calls or keeping your word is the last flimsy yet palpable line of defense of one's social box. I thought Danielle was cool, smart, and sincere, but it turns out she was only smart. Or not interested. But why then would she express sincere interest in getting coffee and practicing French with each other? Bah! One way or the other, she enlightened me that I had entered the after party for a social bike ride, it happens every Thursday. I suddenly had a plan for my next Thursday.

I searched for places all week through craigslist and word-of-mouth, but only a few leads came out. I needed something bikeable. One girl, Kelly, invited me out to her pad, and it was nice, and she seemed to like me far more than the creepo who came by before, but her dog was fucking wacky. As she was showing me around, this Bowser fellow was speeding around, jumping up on me, swatting at my balls with his paws, and drinking out of the toilet in preparation to come give me special kisses. I said, "He's drinking out of the toilet." She said, "Yeah, I let him. He doesn't do it when I pee in it, he knows." Good.

My other lead was a girl named Brooke that needed to fill her place. I said I only need a month, but I can buy you a month's time, if you happen to be out of options. She told me that she couldn't help, but she might know someone that could. And on this Thursday, I was to move the small amount of my things in to Brooke's former next door neighbor Nick's place. The rent? $350/mo+bills. The room? As big as what I got in Boston for 640. Nick turned out to be completely chill, and we got along right away. My airbed? Ended up having a slow leak. That morning, I woke up on the floor and thought of how Wal-Mart could solve my problems.

Trips to Wal-Mart are often noteworthy for the disastrous fashion offenses or grotesque displays of what I believe is a common occurrence of mismanaged, misdirected, and most importantly either uninformed, undereducated, or ignorant parenting and family dynamics, which are sometimes laughable in a way that later makes you sad, but can be singularly comic in their authenticity. Wal-Mart has the ability to make clear the state of socio-economic barriers, and sometimes you just meet someone that is batshit fucking crazy. As I search for tissue paper for the purpose of cleaning in between my buttocks, along with an array of other household items I require, I am confronted with a question from my blind side about where the carpet powder is. I turn around to find a stunning blonde, who apparently has a smelly carpet. I tell her, after a quick mental effort, that I would imagine, if I were Wal-Mart, I'd put it in this aisle or the next one. She goes on to the next, and I take a spin down that aisle too, because she is quite stunning, afterall, and slapped that Louisiana drawl out in front of me. Just tell me what she can say in that voice that is gonna make you turn around in the other direction? OK, OK, but even, "Mah dawg shits on mah carpet and mah playce is a disayster. Do ya wanna come owver and set qwuietly while mah dawg annoys yew and watch bayd Tey Vey with mey," sounds pretty cute. Way cuter than it would in Bostoniense. And even knowing her carpet might be in haggard shape, she was making an effort to rectify this, so I forged bravely into flirtatious conversation, and dreams of wasted time would soon come horribly true.

This is another instance of the "bump" application being a way to smoothly grab digits without potentially stumbling over a whole number exchange mess. "You got bump?" Or "Do you bump?" are way easier questions and take the chunky stuff out of, "How do you spell that," and "did I get this right, (XXX) XXX-XXXX?" Or maybe there are just a lot of cats out there that are just far smoother than me. They probably wear Ed Hardy t-shirts. I left 'Merica-Mart for Chad's, new air bed, shit tickets, and bachelor bibs (paper towels) all stocked into Longshot, and in the middle of my story about it to Chad, this chick is calling me, not even an hour after having met her, trying to invite me to her place. It felt like one of those "I'm a woman and you're a man, and we know what to do" situations, something out of the 50's where I could say something really chauvinistic and get away with it by winking and it's sexy, not horrifically derisive. Instead I declined because plans have been put in order. I'm supposed to go meet my new friends from the P&N show at Red 7 to see Dessa and P.O.S. of Doomtree, or in laymens terms, a hip-hop show.

I made my air bed so I could pass gas on it later, and I biked out to meet Chad at Annie's on Congress. I apparently missed happy hour but he and his friend Eric sure hadn't, and the genius goes ahead and asks a drinking man to give him a ride to the airport tomorrow. Of course he'll agree, he's both drunk and your friend...but will he remember? No matter now, I got an answer. Since happy hour at Annie's was over, we decided we had to leave...for REVERSE HAPPY HOUR at McCormick and Schmick's. Reverse happy hour should be manic hour, or anger hour, or something, in my opinion, but I'm not the marketing genius behind McCormick and Schmick's, so I just got a dollar burger and more beers, and Eric just kept insisting I that I should get whatever I want. The drunkenness factor was starting to make things weird in relation to the service and how sober I was, and how deep Eric was. Regardless, I felt bad having to jet, but they knew I had a plan.

I got over to Red 7 and fucked around by myself until the girls got there and we found each other. The show was good. The flirting was bad. The ride home was uneventful. The gas passing was lofted by 10-12 inches from the ground.

The next day, I start acting like a total idiot who thinks catching a flight is magic that just happens. I can't get a hold of Chad, but I'm not panicking yet. I wanted coffee so I drove my car downtown and went to Halcyon for great but expensive coffee. Having satisfied this need, I figure I ought to go back home. I start feeling the time crunch for my 3:25 flight, it was almost 2:30. I called a cab, and it seemed like it would never get there since the dispatcher estimated fifteen minutes. Finally, after a voicemail to Chad about giving me a ride, I get a text message from him about drinking caffeinated malt liquor on his balcony. I was incredulous at the arrival of it. I called and reminded him about my situation, and he says he'll race the cab over. He got lost and still managed to beat it. He picked me up at 2:48. We arrived at Austin-Bergstrom at 3:02. Chad said he'd loop around in case I missed my flight. I couldn't figure out which card I've used to purchase the damned ticket, so I went up to the check in counter, and the woman tells me the flight is closed. I explained my situation, and suddenly, she hopped out from behind the counter to take a peek at security. She assessed in the glance she got that I can make it to the gate, and calls the gate to see if they'll still let me in. Meanhwile, my ventricles are waiting patiently for her answer. . . Oh HELL yes, I'm good to go. She walked me up to security, and of course, whatever I've got with me, the TSA has a problem with it at this crucial moment. I finally make it through when I'm alerted that my Sigg canteen has liquid in it and I'll have to go back through security to pour it out. I can't believe I made that mistake, such a rookie boner, but there's just no time anymore! Throw it out. Forget it. It's gone now. A casualty of the journey. So after an utterly grueling six minutes of security that felt like twenty and an hour of questioning, I take off running for the gate. They're paging me as I arrive. I'm shouting, it's me! I'm Daniel Kerrigan! I was the last person to get on the plane. Relief set in but was rapidly followed by annoyance at leaving. "I should be drinking 4Loco with Chad," I thought.

Hours later and four screaming babies of limbo on the connected flight to Newark, I'm back on the East Coast, and I feel constrained and cold, and I've yet to go outside. I'm always happy to see my mother, who came to pick me up, God Bless her, it was midnight in Newark, New Jersey, but the feelings were separate. It wasn't the place for me anymore, and I knew it. But mom can make anything right with what she knows about me. I was a happy little fat boy back at home with Chinese food and television, and I would get to visit my Oma the next day. That's what was real there for me. Family and how they can take any place you don't want to be and make it not just acceptable, but welcoming. My annoyance was subdued into patience. Plus one look at the stars erased my antipathy, they're just fantastic in Greenwood Lake, even though I've seen them better in some other places. I always love the view up there, encircled by the fringes of treetops and overhanging branches. Good air, up there.

Statistics:

14 minutes from my apartment to Austin Bergstrom Airport
7 nights at Chad's, 4 on a couch
5 trips to the Snack Bar
$26 for a new Sigg (tax incl)
2:45 layover in Orlando
30 degrees upon arrival in NJ
35+ states better than NJ
$200 to paint Chad's office.
1 oil change
511 miles from New Orleans to Austin.
17.5 hours spent on the road from New Orleans to Austin (sleep incl)

Drinks from...

Day 45

268 Shiner Bock @Doc's
269 Lonestar
270 Orval Trappist Ale @Snack Bar
271 Real Ale Full Moon Pale Rye ale (Tx, Chantal, Kate, Ben)
272 Stella @Ben's

Day 46

273 Independence Stash IPA @Mellow Mushroom
274 New Belgium Ranger IPA @Lustre Pearl
275 Fireman #4 @Gabriel's in AT&T Conference Center Hotel (Thanks, AT&T Conference Center Hotel!)
276 Oban 14 (tx, attcch!)
277 Paloma (tx, Tara, bartender at attcch)
278 Austin Amber Beer (tx Tara)
279 Fireman 4 (tx, Tara)
280 Cuntpuncher shot (tx Tara, Chad)
281 cuntpuncher shot (tx Tara, Chad)
282 60 min ipa @dog and duck
283 512 IPA
284 something @Kung Fu Saloon
285 Yeah, somthing else, I think...

Day 47

286 Sierra Nevada @Chad's
287 Real Ale Full Moon Rye Pale Ale @Snack Bar
288 St. Arnold's Fancy Lawnmower Ale
289 Pinkus Jubilate Dark Lager
290 PBR @Ego's
291 Shot of Jameson (thanks, Seattle guy!)
292 PBR (tx, Seattle guy!)
293 Lonestar (tx, Seattle!)
294 Sierra Nevada @Chad's
295 Dos Equis

Day 48

296 New Belgium Ranger IPA @Chad's
297 Real Ale Full Moon Pale Rye Ale @Rio Rita (tx Brian!)
298 Firemans #4 (tx Brian)
299 Hoppus Ale @East Side Show Room (tx Brian!)
300 Sazerac (tx, Brian!)
301 Gordon Biersch Blonde (tx, Bri!)
302 Shot of Fernet
303 PBR @iron gate
304 Shiner Bock

Day 49

Nothing

Day 50

Nothing

Day 51

305 PBR @Mohawk
306 PBR
307 Fireman's 4
308 Rio Blanco Pale Ale
309 Lone Star

Day 52

310 Ranger IPA @Chad's
311 Red Bull vodka@ Independent Theatre
312 Lone Star
313 PBR @Shangri-La
314 PBR
315 PBR

Day 53

316 Fireman's 4 @Annie's
317 Fireman's 4
318 Ziegenbock @McCormick and Schmick's
319 Ziegenbock
320 Lonestar @Red 7
321 High Life 40 oz
322 Miller Lite
323 Lonestar

Day 54

Nothing


Trying to catch up my days to my current place, so several postings due in the next two weeks.