Deep in the Heart of Texas

We left New Orleans on Tuesday and drove to Houston. Driving west on I-10 (In Texas, it’s I-10; in California, it’s the 10), we took in the results of Ike’s wrath. The hardest-hit structures were signs along the highway, actually. The plastic facades of what seemed to be hundreds of signs were severely damaged or completely blown off. A billboard held up by a massive steel pole leaned over at a 45 degree angle like an arthritic old man.

I had dinner at Little Pappasito’s with my mom and brother on Tuesday night. Pappasito’s is a Houston chain with a distinctive salsa (I think it’s made with grilled tomatoes) and a decent fajitas plate. My brother had gone up to stay with my mom in Northwest Houston during the onset of the hurricane and most of the following week. Fortunately, they were only temporarily without electricity. Bill was awake when the hurricane swept through and said that the howling of the storm was unlike anything he had ever heard.

I spent Wednesday wandering around Montrose, which suffered its own share of sign damage. It’s interesting to see the things that have changed over the last several years. Parts of Montrose continue to gentrify, while other parts look as unkempt as ever. I don’t experience the same sort of longing for the neighborhood that I did five years ago when I moved to Los Angeles, although this probably has more to do with learning to be content with where I currently am than with any less love for Montrose. The neighborhood still has some real problems, but I have to say I love that it’s rough edges persist.

The last few days were spent in San Antonio. Our first day there, I saw something which I used to see in Houston all the time, but which I’ve never seen anywhere else in the country: a newspaper vendor standing in a median at a major intersection. Funny how certain local customs develop and endure–despite technological advancements that would presumably obsolesce such practices, like, say newspaper vending machines.

Walking around San Antonio, I was able to get a better feel for the city than I’ve been able to get in the past. I had only been there once or twice before, and those times were just driving through. What I appreciated this time was all the history of San Antonio; it was my first time touring the Alamo. I also walked by O. Henry’s house. Vintage Texas architecture abounds. However, the Riverwalk did not fare any better upon closer examination. Walt Disney himself could have built it. It seems odd that such an artificial landmark should tie together a city permeated with such a rich history.

Now I sit at a coffee shop named Buli in Dallas, which is apparently the epicenter of gay Dallas. I had a bad case of cabin fever (I’m going to resist the urge to make a Log Cabin Republican joke) when we arrived in Dallas, and the first thing I did when we got to our hotel was look up the closest coffee shop. A cabbie happened to be on his way out of our hotel, so I flagged him down and gave him the address. The first conversation I overheard after sitting down with my cappuccino was between a customer in his forties and a twenty-year old guy behind the counter. The old guy got really excited when the youngin started talking about the thong he wore to a recent community parade. I really need to start reading those Yelp reviews more closely.

I know this has only been a brief overview of the last week. I’m going to sit down later and see if I can’t capture some other moments that have fallen through the cracks. If I don’t get around to it, feel free to fill in the cracks with the caulk gun of your imagination. I know you can come up with some good stories, too!

NOLA: Capitol of Taste (Food, Architecture) and Tastelessness (Bourbon St.)

The t.v.’s on in Room 363 at the Prince Conti Hotel in the Vieux Carre, and I’m watching the last game of baseball ever to be played in Yankee Stadium (unless the Red Sox collapse over the next seven games).

The French Quarter smells the same as it ever has: an oddly compelling mix of Lysol, stale beer, urine, and an occasional waft of Nag Champa and/or Tabasco Sauce.

Today I saw a human statue, completely covered in silver paint, riding his bike down Chartres St. I always thought they couldn’t move unless you put money in their tip jar. Seems like cycling goes against the rules somehow.

On my way back from dinner tonight, I walked down Bourbon St. and was bombarded by extremely loud cover bands blaring their Lynard Skynard, Foo Fighter, and Billy Joel tunes from three corners of the same intersection. I can’t see how anyone would actually enjoy themselves in one of these clubs. It sounded like Dave Grohl took up piano and started playing hardcore country music.

Where’s the espresso love, Atlanta?

I’m writing this post in Aurora Coffee in Little Five Points, which feels like it might be the pagan center of the South. Unsettling industrial fuzz is blasting from the stereo speakers, and several concert posters on the wall contain pentagrams. So, I’m not staying here for long. Another reason for leaving is that the coffee sucks.

Yesterday I visited a shop next to our hotel called San Francisco Roasting Company. Generally, when the word Roasting is in the name of a coffee shop, it’s a good sign. This place should have been called the San Fransucksco Charring Company. Would’ve been a more accurate description of the “coffee”.

Yelp.com has been a pretty good indicator of coffee shops to check out on the road. Reviewers for both of these coffee houses boasted that each place had the best coffee in the city. This is the South, so I propose that both of these people be tarred and feathered.

Having lived in the South for nearly 20 years of my life, I have definitely experienced its charms; I am not one to quickly stereotype its idiosyncrasies. But for whatever reason, during our jaunt through the South (which has only just begun), I have been glad to live in California. There are rednecks in every state of the union, but the rednecks in the South have it down to an art. In an earlier post, I said that I didn’t want to make fun of any place that I visited, and I’m not going to do that. I love many things about the South. Things do move at a slower pace. People aren’t as standoffish. But when someone here is dumb, man, do they really go for the gold.

In all fairness, a good number of the people wandering the streets of Atlanta are probably on drugs or have been on drugs at one time. My heart goes out to them. Who knows why or how they got into drugs? I have been up close to abuse, and I know these people have holes in their hearts that they’re trying to fill. A good number of the people who appear to be addicts in Atlanta are black. We drove through a section of town yesterday where every other person was strung out. It seems to be an accepted part of life here. I walked to a theater to see Burn After Reading (which warrants a post of its own), and many of the African American people I passed on the sidewalk had a look in their eyes which seemed to convey that they were used to being invisible. There was no fight in their eyes. It’s as if the Old South continues to loom over Atlanta a hundred and forty years after the abolition of slavery. Surely I am making generalizations and perhaps using anecdotal observations to describe the state of things here in Atlanta. But it sure feels like many whites and blacks in Atlanta live in two different worlds. I know things are similar in places all over country, but in no other town we’ve visited thus far has it been so evident.

Wisteria

I’m feeling good. I’ve just returned from a delicious meal at a place called Wisteria, located north of the Little Five Points area of Atlanta. Okay, it may have something to do with the Wisteria Blossom martini. But the fried green tomato fries and southern fried catfish in a spicy shrimp and tomato rémoulade were delectable and made my taste buds sing. I had to wake up at 4:45 this morning and drive the four hour trip from Nashville to Atlanta this afternoon, and it feels good to be in my pajamas and watching the Cubs play the Brewers on ESPN (even though the Brewers are leading 3 to 1 at the bottom of the fifth).

Playing Catch-Up

A little over a month ago, I promised you I would never write about not writing. And I’m not going to break that promise to you, Dear Reader. But many things have happened since then that I haven’t been able to share with you. I’m going to try to list a few highlights, so you don’t feel like I have cheated you, Gentle Friend. They will not necessarily be in chronological order for the following reasons:

1. I have been irrevocably affected by the post-modern upending of the traditional linear narrative.
2. I don’t feel like it.

This sentence exists because it would be uncouth of me to place a bulleted list directly beneath a numbered list.

• In Minneapolis, I rolled the hamster ball around the bases of the Metrodome during the pre-game festivities.

Imagine a gigantic hamster ball in the center of this photograph.

• Also in Minneapolis: During one of our press events, a radio personality rolled the ball out into Lake Calhoun. The current started pulling the ball out toward the center of the lake, but the guy in the ball apparently did not want to get wet so he didn’t budge. I jumped into the lake and started swimming toward him; when I got within a yard of the ball, the wind picked up and pushed the ball out of reach and across the lake. I got sopping wet for nothing because the ball stopped when it hit the opposite bank.
• I have seen ten baseball games in nine parks thus far: Yankee Stadium, Fenway Park, Citizens Bank Park, PNC Park, Progressive Field, Wrigley Field (2), Miller Park, and the Metrodome. Writing about this reminds me of something I read at stuffwhitepeoplelike.com:

Two white people from the Somerville, MA created an organization called “TEAL: Typo Eradication Advancement League,” and vowed to travel across the country fixing typos. This is especially interesting since every other time two late 20s white males have traveled across the country it has been to visit all 30 Major League Baseball stadiums.

Here I am in the ball, on the field at Busch Stadium in St. Louis.

I’m writing this from Nashville, at a coffee shop called Crema. My cappuccino was exquisite, I’m happy to report. Most of the coffee shops that I have highlighted have used La Marzocco machines, to which Crema is no exception. In light of that fact, I feel especially delighted that Thena and I were able to visit the La Marzocco factory when we were in Florence last year.

The La Marzocco machine at Crema.

A master at work at the La Marzocco factory north of Florence

I’m not sure if they had me mistaken for someone else, but they sure rolled out the red carpet for our visit.

The royal treatment

Another First!

Lifetime firsts are piling up around here like plastic bottles in Ed Beagley Jr.’s pantry. There was my first game at Yankee Stadium; my first time standing on the field of a major league ballpark; my first (and last) time in Detroit. And now, my first time getting bitten by a police dog.

Thoughtbit: 09.12.08

There’s something unsettling about eating pizza at the end of a day spent exerting yourself: is that lingering scent pizza sauce or sweat?

Thoughtbit 09.11.08

I appreciate it when a city pays attention to details. Yesterday, driving into Milwaukee I noticed that the sides of some of the highway overpasses were painted a pleasing blue. I liked imagining the planning meeting where the city movers and shakers sat around and discussed which color should be used.

Time Warped

This morning I fell prey to one of the great perils of the road: the hotel room television set. I actually haven’t done this that often while on this trip, but today I woke up, turned on the t.v., and proceeded to wander the entertainment wasteland that is cable for the next hour and a half. But all was not for naught. I learned the following things from my experience this morning:

• Sarah Palin has ignited a fashion trend in eye wear in the last two weeks.
• Meg Ryan looked much better before plastic surgery.
• Only African-American women between the ages of 20 and 35 attend live tapings of the Tyra Banks show.
• Brad Pitt likes architecture.
• The Cosby Show would never last as long as it did if it were introduced in 2008.
• Jessica Simpson spent $100,000 to rent a mansion in Dallas for two weeks so she could be close to boyfriend and Dallas Cowboys QB Tony Romo.

See? The morning wasn’t a complete waste. On a more serious note, footage of Rudolph Giuliani and Sarah Palin laughing at the notion of community organizing in their speeches at the RNC disturbed and angered me.

City of Lakes

I’ve spent the day walking around Minneapolis. After grabbing a ham and pear sandwich at Hell’s Kitchen, I traipsed over to the Minneapolis Sculpture Garden, which happens to be home to one of Claus Oldenburg’s most famous sculptures, Spoonbridge and Cherry.

The sundae was nowhere to be found.

There I go again and ruin the tableau.

The air today is sweet and chilly. People are sitting on benches, reading newspapers and books. Others are spread out on blankets in the grass at Loring Park. Two college girls pass me laughing, as I make my way down the path as it curves along Loring Lake. The city comes alive as the first breaths of autumn invigorate its people. It reminds me of the gasp of exhilaration that overtakes your body as you leap from a cliff, momentarily skyborne, before heartlessly practical gravity brings you plunging toward the water below.

Minneapolis is Chicago’s kid brother. Chicago left home at 17 to seek his fortune: big-shouldered and tough, he works first as a butcher’s apprentice, and then finds a job as a tool-maker. He toils for years day-in and day-out until he has enough money to buy the tool shop from his aging master. While Chicago slaves away in the city, Minneapolis stays behind at home and dreams about the adventures his brother is having in the city. He tells stories and creates art; he spends his days lost in romantic dreaming and writes songs about travel and intrigue. His hands are soft and never know the pleasurable pain of blisters. They become great at what they do respectively, but each still lies awake at night wishing he could trade places with the other. Cut from the same cloth, Chicago and Minneapolis are two Midwestern boys who have grown into completely different clothing.

Minneapolis does have an artistic flair. I was excited to see that some of the placards describing sculptures in the garden include a phone number you can call to find out more information about the artist and/or sculpture. I guess I’m a geek when it comes to finding new ways to use technology to share art with people.

The Irene Hixon Whitney Bridge connects Loring Park and the Minneapolis Sculpture Garden.