On Vacations

I neglected to mention in my setup yesterday that one of the key rules of this 30 day project is that it not be self-referential, i.e. talking about the fact that I’m writing every day. That’s a crutch that I’m not going to allow myself.

Part of my recent spurt of imagination stems from the therapeutic effects of a recent vacation. Hold on, you might say, aren’t you marginally employed and recently married? Didn’t you just escape to another island idyll just four short months ago? Yeah, but.

Vacations, by definition, force you to leave all of your normal day-to-day existence behind at the airport, to be picked up at baggage claim along with your luggage. Even the leash of a Blackberry can be severed (as it was in my case) by wonky cell signal and the urge to throw the damned thing into the crystal blue ocean like a Corona commercial. You exist as Yourself Minus; minus job (haha), minus extra-curriculars, minus most friends, minus your cars, house, and possessions that wouldn’t fit in the Samsonite. It allows you time and clarity to see yourself as you are without those things. Which, strangely, is not nearly as pretentious as it sounds; it’s merely comfortable in the way that staying in bed on Saturday morning is comfortable.

A brief moment creased the armor of this particular vacation, a phone call informing us that a tree had fallen on our car, followed by a second call downgrading the crisis to small branches on our more sturdy vehicle. The sheer panic of an unexpected Responsibility encroached and receded, and was forgotten except as a funny story to tell over rum drinks.

I’ve never been one for vacations. When I leave a job, I always have excess vacation days remaining, sometimes weeks worth. In the seven years since I graduated from college, I’ve taken the odd extended weekend here and there, but the only real vacation I’ve had was my honeymoon in March. Having two trips close together has implanted the importance of these breaks. As much as we all pride ourselves on work ethic and willingness to go the extra mile, we also serve a God who ordains rest. As thirty taps me on the shoulder and hands me its business card, I’m starting to see the wisdom in rest and reset.

LeMonade

I’m so anxious that I think I may have wet my pants.  Unfortunately, I can’t rotate my head downward enough to confirm this fear.  A quick pat-down of my Nomex race suit finds no wetness, so at very least I can feel confident in the liquid-retaining power of the fireproof material that’s bundled about me.  I’m snapped out of my reverie by the waving of my temporary teammate’s gloved hand.  The car is ready to get back on the track.

Three hours earlier, I arrived at Motorsport Ranch on a blustery February day to cover the 24 Hours of LeMons Gator-O-Rama for Houstonist.  The LeMons series is a circuit of car races around the country consisting of $500 cars.  Teams have a lot of character, and the similarities to the art car crowd are not unfounded, except that these maniacs drive these cars at unsafe speeds instead of cruising down Allen Parkway.  After watching the race from various vantage points in the early afternoon, the Evel Kweasel team was ready for me to take a turn in their prized 1982 Toyota Corolla.

Unlike any 80’s Japanese econobox I’d ever encountered, this one has a full roll cage, a fuel pump kill switch, and a steering wheel smaller than a pie plate.  Climbing into the cockpit was not a task for anyone with a huge amount of personal pride; being harnessed into the racing seat also brought me in very close physical contact with these guys who I’d only met hours before.  One of the race organizers provided me with a red, Nomex-lined race suit, matching shoes and gloves, and a white helmet with the LeMons logo wrapping around it, furthering the idea that this was a real, honest-to-God car race.

Of course, I already knew this by the time I got the wave to go: in fact, the wheel-to-wheel action I’d seen from my safe, journalistically detached perspectives was what was really causing my anxiety.  (Even writing this, two days later, my palms have begun to sweat and I can actually feel my heart rate climbing.)  Races have winners, and observers are the people in the grandstands surrounding the pit row where the Corolla now sits.  By crossing the concrete barrier between the pits and the spectators, I’ve ceased to be an observer: I’m a racer now.

Only the race car isn’t moving.  I’ve stalled it.  The combination of push button starter and my trembling left leg have caused me to stall the car.  And stall it again.  And again.  Finally, the guys give the car a rolling start, I find 1st gear and pop the clutch.  Success! I roll slowly toward the pit exit and find 2nd gear.  But a race track employee is flagging me down.  Is there a limit on the number of times you can stall the car before everyone realizes you’re a phony and they haul you away? No, she just needs to see my driver-only wristband.  But I’m trying to manage the wonky synchros of 2nd gear, steer toward the right hand turn that leads out of the pits, and control my metronome heartbeat.  I fumble my limbs around my shoulders like an epileptic making the Sign of the Cross before finally tugging my glove upward enough to display the yellow wristband.  She waves me through before I stall the car again.  I won’t stall it again all day.

I round the right hander onto the backside of the track.  The Corolla wails like a horrific chimera of a Harley-Davidson and an angry infant, shrill and blaring at the same time.  The car owes its voice to the loss of its exhaust system (everything back of the headers) about 10 laps into the race, before my wheel time began.  The blare becomes a drone as I shift into third and begin to learn the track.  Fortunately, a yellow caution flag waves on my second lap, allowing me to take a more leisurely pace without having to worry about other racers passing me or vice versa.  I settle in behind a red Ford Taurus and learn the turns. Soft right, chicane, right, hard left, hairpin, hard right, hard right, long soft left, right, straight, hairpin, repeat.  I’m close on the Taurus’ bumper, and I’m starting to look anxiously for the yellow to drop so I can pass him.  When the caution is finally lifted, I’m reminded of the difference between a regular Taurus and a Taurus SHO.  The Yamaha V6 lights up and he’s blasting down the straight, forever out of my reach.

Now the racing begins in earnest.  The faster cars are flying by me.  A gold MR2.  A blaring red Miata with a curly pig tail.  A huge Infiniti Q45.  I’m trying not to let the passing affect me, but it’s an ego blow after getting my hopes up under caution.  I focus on my lines.  I shift rarely, 3rd gear providing the torque to power out of the turns.  The brakes are mushy but adequate.  I make some tire-squealing approaches to the back turns, getting faster each time.  I navigate the traffic that occassionally builds near the chicane without tail-ending anyone.  My confidence is building.  Ahead, I see my quarry: a orange BMW 3-series.

The 3-series is loping along at an even slower rate than I am. I’m zeroing in on the Beemer, cutting tighter turns, waiting to brake and accelerating out of the turns with purpose.  I’m on his bumper as we enter the chicane, dodging right and juking left as we approach a right hand turn.  A sharp left looms ahead, after which the track narrows.  I want to avoid the claustrophobia of the narrow stretch leading to the horseshoe-shaped turn ahead, so the left is my chance.  I mash the gas and sneak inside my orange nemesis.  It’s a sharp turn to take such a narrow line on, but the Corolla’s forgiving chassis has given me reason to believe that this won’t be a huge mistake.  I hope. I squinch my eyes shut as I rocket through the turn.

No sound.  No crunching metal.  A vibrating orange shape in my rear-view mirror shows that I have successfully passed the BMW. Big exhale. But now I’ve waited too long to brake for the right-hand hairpin.  Slam on brakes, crank the wheel right.  Squeal squeal squeal. Lift gas. Correct. Mash gas.

After making the pass, I realized that my playtime probably needed to end soon.  I was getting passed a lot, and I didn’t want to hinder the Evel Kweasel team in the standings.  I signal out the window that I’ll make one more lap, and cruise into the pits soon thereafter.  I immediately regret turning the fuel pump switch off.  I want to go back.  I want to keep risking life and limb three weeks before my wedding, because this is a peak adrenaline experience unlike any I’ve had in years.  But the pit crew is coming to unbuckle me, and I have a story to write, not a race to win.  It’s time to get back on my side of the concrete barrier.

Racing is fun, but it’s not where I’m meant to be.  This is where I’m supposed to be: sitting in my office, writing about the experience.  And I’m supposed to be in one piece for my blushing bride’s sake, so I think I’d rather risk a keyboard injury than figure out just how well the roll cage in a $500 car holds up.  Race on, fellas, and I’ll see you again in October.

—

Once more for the record, a huge thanks to Nick Pon and the Team Evel Kweasel boys for making this all happen.  You ROCK!

Rambling down the aisle

I’m like a recovering alcoholic with this blog: I fall off the regular posting wagon with alarming regularity, and then return with renewed vigor and commitment to frequent posting only to repeat the cycle once again. But with the wedding on the horizon, a date all but set, and a scant three months before Mich moves back to Houston, I might as well take another swig of the Blog Juice.

- Survived Ike safe and sound, thankfully without damage to the apt. Power was out for two weeks, so I stayed with my folks in Katy. The commute from The Boonies was great until the second week, when I-10 became the world’s largest parking lot. Being at the Chron during the storm recovery was a rush, and definitely a career highlight for me. (no, not just my not-even-half-year time at Texas St. The whole post-college career)

- Pleased with how the Astros finished the season, Ike notwithstanding. Resign Wolf and pick up another free agent pitcher, and we’ll be more than ok going into 2009. Also, someone please remind Hank Steinbrenner that the NL Central is baseball’s toughest division, not the AL East.

- Wedding planning is fun. Seriously. When else do you get to pick your own liturgy?

- Also, for the Ausmus-loving ladies in the readership, go to www.astros.com and view the tribute video that played before his last game here. Jeff Bagwell: great 1^st baseman, lousy comic timing.

- Bachelor party + friends who home brew = win.

- Among the songs that would be hilariously wrong as a wedding dance song: Better Man by Pearl Jam, Smack My Bitch Up by Prodigy, I Married Her Because She Looks Like You by Lyle Lovett, Fat Bottom Girls by Queen, I Will Survive as covered by Cake (now with 100% more F-bombs!), and I Love You Because I Have To by Dogs Die In Hot Cars. There are more. Lots more.

- I’m getting a custom shirt made at Billy Reid for the wedding. I’m way more excited about this than I should be. Now if only I could find a solid black suit with flat front pants, three buttons, and narrow lapels, and a skinny, black tonal-paisley tie.

- The Chron’s post-Ike power database was the best sociology experiment I’ve ever seen. The mood swings, the petulance and lack of perspective were all appalling and hilarious at the same time. Centerpoint, et al. did a helluva job in the days after the storm; they just need a new PR strategy and more honest customer service.

- Not especially blown away by the new St. Arnold’s Divine Reserve. It’s not bad, it’s actually quite good. But it’s not the home run in the way that the last two were.

- After becoming enamored with The Hold Steady after buying their “Boys and Girls in America” album, I’ve lately come to realize that their first album “…Almost Killed Me” is my favorite of theirs. Raw and rugged where their recent albums are more cohesive, confident and technically adept, the songs just fit their Midwestern bar band persona a lot better. It’s an uglier world, but it’s more exhilarating because it’s more scary.

- Finally, since it is Schadenfriday, I only have this to say to every Cubs fan who brought a sign cheering for Ike to the Astros’ “home” games in Milwaukee: do not tempt the Baseaball Gods, for they are cruel.  Have another lonely October, jerks.

So these are the soundtracks, the distractions and pressing concerns (minus a few unpublishable concerns) that are rattling around in my head at the moment. Naturally, as the wedding gets closer, this space should get a little bit more newsy, unless I’m just too busy to post.

If you feel like dancing

This is a sequel of sorts to my previous post on jukebox etiquitte, but with the twist that while it is possible (and proper) to dethrone the tyranny of the clown who picked several consecutive selections from Nirvana’s Nevermind, it’s impossible to stop today’s topic of discussion once it has begun.

I’m speaking, of course, of wedding dance songs. While the overall playlist for a wedding reception is also open to debate (except the inclusion of the Chicken Dance. There is never a right time and place for that crap), what we’re going to focus on today is the criteria for choosing a song for the first dance between you and your beloved. As with the jukebox stuff, there are many different facets to consider.

1. This should go without saying, but obviously the fact that I’m saying it means that that can’t possibly be true: pick a song that’s actually danceable. Example: you can’t do anything to the complex, if beautiful, compositions of Sufjan Stevens. No matter how much you like To Be Alone With You or Vito’s Ordination Song, there’s no sustaining backbeat that allows you to dance like anything other than a limp cod.
2. The aforementioned Vito’s brings us to another point. Pick a short song. People didn’t buy you a blender so that they could watch you enact an entire three-movement dance performance. Three and a half minutes, MAX. This (for me) rules out the otherwise-perfect South Texas Girl by Lyle Lovett, which clocks in at over six minutes. If someone tried to force you to watch them dance for even four minutes, you’d be running for the buffet pretty quickly, and by minute six, you’d be seeing if you could take those Wuesthoff knives back to Williams-Sonoma. Don’t antagonize your guests.
3. Pick something that’s not completely obscure. This KILLS me, but as much as I’d totally try to find an acoustic arrangement of the Cabin’s Dance With Me, my indie-ness would be my downfall as my grandmother falls asleep and anyone who is a staunch 94.5 The Buzz listener wonders why I didn’t use a Three Doors Down “ballad” instead. Pick a classic, new or old; I don’t care if it’s Michael Buble or Dean Martin, so long as it swings enough to meet #2’s requirements.
4. Do not pick You Are So Beautiful by Louis Armstrong. That is a father-daughter dance, you sicko.
5. All of this has been built on the assumption that you’re going to dance. Dance. Dance whether you’re any good or not, or even if you’re Baptist. Just do it. Especially if you’re Baptist, because if you’re not giving your guests booze, they should at least get some entertainment out of watching your goofy “waltz”.
6. Don’t pick anything intstrumental, unless it’s so completely well-known that everyone in the room, including your aunt who only watches the public broadcasts of city council meetings, will recognize it. Speaking to the dudes: you need to whisper the lyrics to your new wife. All of them.
7. You need to have a big finish, so pick a song that actually finishes. If it fades out at the end, no dice. How else will you know when to dip the bride?
8. Watch out for awkward lyrics. I watched an A&E special where Lyle and the Large Band were playing live, and taking requests from callers. One couple called in to say that they’d danced to Nobody Knows Me at their wedding; Lyle gently reminded them that it’s a cheating song. So many great love songs (particular the great R&B classics) are about unfaithful partners promising afresh that they will always be true. Awwwwwkward. Keep your love songs straigh forward. This same principle applies to any songs that get even borderline raunchy; nothing against raunchy, but it’s a simple moment for simple pleasures. Translation: probably skip Marvin Gaye.
9. If it’s a song that could also be played at a funeral, forget it. I’m looking at you, Wind Beneath My Wings.
10. Finally, pick something you like. Weddings are not performances, they’re parties for you. Don’t pick a song because anyone other than you and your intended think it’s cool.

So why am I obsessing about this? Eh, it’s been on my mind for a few months now, and I’ve been to enough weddings over the past decade to choke a horse. More importantly, what is my choice? After hours of research, I’ve found it: Come Rain or Come Shine, as sung by Ray Charles. Classic voice, classic song, only 2:45 long. Perfect.  But then again, this decision should be democratic, so discussions are ongoing.

I needed to get this down on paper before I introduced y’all to my fiancee. I love you, Mich; you’re my smile. Everybody else, block off some time next year and bring your dancing shoes.

She's my smile

On blogging, success, and an $8 peanut butter sandwich

Many of you (and by “you” I mean the five people who read this blog regularly and the sixteen people who were Googling for Looney Tunes slash fiction) have noted that this blog has gone un-updated for a while.  You have my heartfelt apologies, but I really didn’t have a darned thing to say for months.  Really.

When I began blogging four years ago, I decided that my little corner of the internet wouldn’t be a forum for my moping and whining.  It’s all to easy to come across that way, and especially given the stream-of-consciousness composition method that I use when I write, I very easily could’ve written quite a few posts that would’ve made a sixteen year old with a sparkling, seizure-inducing MySpace blush.  So when I would consider writing on here this spring, I always demurred, because I didn’t want to talk about the pressing, real-life concerns in my world: unemployment, crime, relationships, disappointment, writer’s block (of course), and finances.  Believe me, you wouldn’t want to read that dreck.

But why start writing now?  Well, I’m employed again (twice over) and haven’t had to talk to the police in almost a month, for starters.  Actually, that last part isn’t entirely true; I have had to talk about The Police.  For those of you who haven’t heard, I’m freelancing at the Houston Chronicle, and one of my recent assignments was to write a review of the Police/Elvis Costello show in the Woodlands.  Somehow, around the office here, this was deemed to be drawing the short straw.  For me, though, it was the first time in the five weeks that I’ve been here that I actually felt like something approaching a real journalist.  So that experience was the shot in the arm that I needed to start writing here again; it was something that I could re-tell here without it being so maudlin or boring that you’d click away to see what was posted on ManBabies today.

The quick timeline of writing the Police review, in chronological order: cracking myself up by thinking of fake interview questions for Sting (“what was it like playing the Goblin King in Labyrinth?”), figuring out how in the hell someone was going to edit my story at the ungodly hour it would be completed, receiving and then returning ALL the media tickets for the event, running into a nemesis,  cramming three people into Vesper for the return trip to town, a gigantic cup of coffee at Brasil, walking through the ghost town that Houston becomes on weekday nights, composing a caffiene-fueled piece while hoping not to be evicerated in the comments, meeting the creepy night editor, and slogging home too hyped up to sleep even though it was 3am.  Whew.

So back to the point, at heart I’m an optimist, and I’ve had plenty of reasons to support a more cheery outlook on life lately.  It even goes beyond the fact that I’ve got what amounts to my dream job right now (it is still a job, after), though.  On Wednesday, my post-deadline haze was rolled back under the influence of a sandwich and a conversation.  The role of the sandwich was played by the heavenly Fat Elvis at B’wiched on Westheimer, a pannini concoction of homemade peanut butter, caramelized bananas, and wild honey. (The King and the Big Puma would both be proud)  The conversation was provided by my dear old mum, who was somewhat out of the loop of recent developments in my life.  As I rattled through the litany of good things that’ve been happening, the act of relating them all in sequence brought to mind just how mind-numbingly blessed I’ve been lately.  As the great poets Chubawumba once said, I get knocked down, but I get up again, you’re never gonna keep me down.

(It’s stuck in your head now, isn’t it? You’re welcome.)

Anyway, on the heels of all this introspection and reflection, I rolled in to work this morning, intent on blogging, when I read this article.  While I don’t think I’ll ever have the attention of a large part of a major American city like she did, her experiences did really help me to coalesce the thoughts on my self-imposed hiatus, leading to the very entry you find here.  Writing has suddenly become not only my passion, but my livelihood, and I’m still wrestling with the implications of that.  Hopefully, it’ll make my writing here more vibrant and more focused, or it could just make this the one outlet for my not-suitable-for-print ramblings.

we. shall. see.

Writing Under The Influence of B-12 & Lidocaine

There are times that I consider abandoning any semblance of reasonable discourse on this blog, and just forge ahead with nothing but the rambling posts that compose an inordinate amount of my time here.  But then I wouldn’t have room for high-concept crap like the jukebox thing, and my forthcoming missive on the theology of football.  (really)   But for nights like tonight, when I feel guilty about the frequency with which I post (or don’t), nothing quite hits the spot like a little ramble.  Kind of like how as a beer snob, I have to be in just the right mood to want a cider, but when that hankering takes root, there’s nothing but a Strongbow that’ll satisfy it.  Now off to the races:

- Among the gifts that I received for Christmas, one was a gift certificate to Brooks Brothers.  While I wouldn’t ever be caught dead in one of their sweaters, or any of their pleated pants, they are a bastion of classic style, and so I purposed to get some classic accessories there.  I’m now the proud owner of a fistful of quality handkerchiefs and a burgundy and blue bow tie.  For some reason, I’m more excited about the hankies.  Maybe it’s because they’ve already come in handy during one recent emotional evening, or because they can stand in as a white pocket square in a pinch, but I’m glad I’ve got them.

-I also grabbed one of BB’s killer non-iron dress shirts, that don’t have to be dry cleaned.  Perfect for procrastinators like myself who sometimes need a shirt for a meeting the next day and only realize this fact after it’s too late to get to the cleaners.   Their tag line should be “shirts for incompetents who want to look competent”.

- If I never hear the words “Roger” and “Clemens” again, it won’t be too soon.  Yeesh.  Look around, Rocket: no one else is going to these lengths to defend themselves against the Mitchell Report.  It doesn’t make you look innocent, it makes you look petulant like a kid who got caught stealing gum at the grocery store and tries to say that he had the gum already.

- The holiday season (and I say that not to infuriate Bill O’Reilly, but because I’m referring to both Christmas and New Year’s) was rather crazy, with several firsts established:  first Christmas where I didn’t actually see my folks on the 25th,  first New Year’s Eve spent at a hospital, first time to actually get a kiss at midnight, first time my current girlfriend didn’t break up with me on the 1st,  and first time to actually buck up and take back a gift that I didn’t really want instead of pretending I liked it and then have it sit in a forgotten corner of my apartment until I throw it out when I move.

- What a difference three weeks makes.

- I spent some time over the past couple of weeks catching up on the catalogs of musicians I’ve always been told that I’d enjoy, but never got into.  Several artists and albums stood out.  The artists: Fugazi, Ray Charles, Queens of the Stone Age, The Clash, and Minutemen.  The albums: Person Pitch by Panda Bear, Exile on Main Street by the Stones, Moondance by Van Morrison,  and In The Aeroplane Over The Sea by Neutral Milk Hotel.   The biggest surprise was Panda Bear; it’s a retarded band name that doesn’t fit their/his sound at all, but it’s beautiful, dreamy, meandering pop, the sort of stuff that Brian Wilson would’ve made in 1969 if he’d had the technology.  I guess Wilson was in bed for all those years with the hope that he’d wake up in 2007 and be able to make this album.  I’m not saying that it’ll necessarily age as well as Pet Sounds, but Panda Bear made me want to revise my Best of 2007 list.

-  Speaking of music, after listening to their music since Yankee Hotel Foxtrot came out and I made it my first-ever “I’m buying this because of the hype” music purchase (though I did the safe thing by buying it for my brother as a gift), I’m going to get to see Wilco live in March.  With the band as it exists circa Sky Blue Sky, this should be a fantastic evening.  I may even have some company for the occasion.

- After an entire season on the Texans beat for Houstonist, I’m a full fledged convert to fandom.  I don’t have any Texans gear (that’ll change as soon as it goes on end-of-season clearance at Academy), but my heart is Battle Red.  Eff the Titans and their inexplicable local fans (whether of the pathetic “they’re really the Oilers” variety or the “Vince Young parted the Red Sea” ilk), I’m going with a team on the upswing.  They’re young, fast, and defense-minded.  Watch ‘em next year; they were a running game and a bunch of injuries away from the playoffs.  One player won’t change that, but a couple additions in key areas will.

- Fearless Critic and Houston: It’s Worth It.  Two books, one Christmas present.  One awesome girlfriend.

Yeah, that’s about it.  Still just crappy rambling.   But some day soon, I’ll explain why sports writers need to stop writing snarky columns saying “like God cares about football.  Pssh!” every time a player says something about God wanting his team to win.  Ooooh, exciting, huh?

This Was Supposed To Be Coherant

But when you start off the week with a migraine, your ability to put together anything that even remotely resembles a cohesive narrative definitely suffers. So what you’re left with is another rambling blog post about nothing in particular, but everything in general. Which, I suppose, isn’t all bad. So here we go:

- I need to write here more often, if only to remind myself what it’s like to write in first person. Having to use the royal “we” over at Houstonist is like nails on a chalkboard at times.

- Not that I’m complaining about Houstonist, mind you.

- Thanksgiving was nice in a “good grief, how’d I get so tired?” kind of way. When your compass points to Conroe and Katy and points in between all weekend, with precious little chill time, you end up longing for Monday if only to get out of your damn car.

- Not that I’m complaining about Vesper, mind you.

- December looks about as busy, but spread over a longer time period. Which is good, I guess. After spending the past couple of years celebrating my birthday in a pretty laid-back fashion, my birthday falls on a Monday (free beer at the Saucer!) and the lovely Miss McNamara is planning something delicious. Should be fun.

- Not that I’m complaining about my birthday, mind you. (I have no idea how long I can keep this up)

- I’m seen as something of an authority on baseball within my social circle now. How crazy is that? Sure, it seems as though I’ve got a stronger handle on what the Astros are doing this offseason than Richard Justice does (does he snuggle up at night under a blanket with Chris Burke’s face on it? and does that blanket swing at bad pitches like it’s going out of style?) but I’m hardly a real expert. Unless….*runs to see if he can interview Ed Wade*

- Not that I’m complaining about the Chronicle’s sports coverage, mind you. (actually I am. this whole conceit dies here.)

- One of these days, I’ll actually interview a band or person on Houstonist that I’m not friends with, or where I have no previous connection. Until then, time to review Monica Pope’s new restaurant!

- I found my ticket stub from the Explosions In The Sky show in March (!), and that got me to thinking about the shows I’ve seen this year. Here they are, as best I can recall: Mute Math, Explosions In The Sky, The Hold Steady (with Illinois), Okkervil River, Guy Forsyth (3X), Trout Fishing In America, Junior Brown, The Avett Brothers, Girl Talk, Nickel Creek (2X), Zookeeper (2X), Ethan Durelle (2X), Two Tons of Steel (2X), The Church of Philadelphia (2X), Hollywood Black, and last but not least, Meryll. Throw in Asylum Street Spankers and possibly This Will Destroy You to finish the year, and the hits outweigh the misses (Bloc Party, Spoon, etc.) by far.

- New Favorite Nickname: Mr. Tummnus. This one will be nearly impossible to top. Especially when it’s delivered with the lisp of a 9 year old.

- Why oh why can’t we get these in the States?

Ok, that’s enough rambling. I will update more often because we are tired of we.

On Unclehood and Facebook

Over the past 72 hours, I’ve experienced two phenomena unique in my experience. One is an experience that has been shared (or will be shared) by most of humanity at some point, all throughout history. The other is so new that we’ve only just recently coined a term for it. I’ve had some time to try to reflect on these two events, to try to see if there is a common thread or unifying factor. I guess that’s why I’m typing this up, so that by thinking it out this way I can weave the two together.

First off, I’m officially an uncle now. While my parents have been laying claim to grandparentood for some time now, I count any familial relationship wherein one of the parties is still gestating as something less than legit. Not to say that Joshua Anthony Hays was any less of a person on Monday than he was when he emerged into this world on Tuesday, but the miracle of birth is the miracle of revelation. Of revealing something that was heretofore hidden. Nevertheless, I’m an uncle for real now, and the question of legitimacy is forever answered. For all the joking I’ve done over the past nine months about being the cool uncle, the corrupting uncle, (not that I’m going to set that aside) it’s a truly stunning thing to view your sibling’s offspring. Visions of eighteen years of birthday parties, speedy toddlers, t-ball games, and a mountain of diapers fly by so quickly that you can’t be sure if they’re your memories or premonitions of his. It’s a very cool thing, and it’ll be a sight to see as he grows older.

Hope Springs Eternal

For the past year and a half, there has been a gaping hole in the soul of Houston, a scar on Shepherd and a blight on a city already struggling to build credibility. A place where people from many walks of life, with many differing opinions and tastes could convene under the shared banner of fandom, was taken from us too soon, a victim of years and replaced only with retail and a sad reminder in the form of a vacant sign. But all is no longer lost: forces have stirred, and the city of Houston has received a gift.

Cactus Records is back.

It’s not at the landmark location on the corner of Shepherd and Alabama, but it is in a similarly Art Deco location just a few blocks away. All the music is back, though the video rental has (like VHS) gone the way of the dinosaur. The in-store performances will be back. The manager of 20 years at the old location is back. It’s not a revival like the bastard Gilley’s that’s been discussed.

Finally, no more trips to Vinyl Exchange for lousy service and poor selection or Best Buy for hit-and-miss selection and technicolor sensory overload. Finally, a chance to slightly overpay for good music and feel like you’re actually helping the artists. Finally, a place to remember the past trips to Cactus (for Weezer rarities, local artists, and random releases) while building new memories.

In addition, the new location is going to have music-related art on site, too. The opening exhibit is Dia De Los Muertos-inspired depictions of famous dead musicians. Yup, sounds like Cactus. Time for 30 more great years.

Notes on a Weekend

Yet another filler post. Sue me. It can’t all be cavorting with professional athletes around here.

-Sometimes answered prayer looks completely different than you imagine it would. Sometimes having every expectation turned on its head is the best thing in the world. Sometimes it’s best when you’re not heard at all. When hesitant eyes become comfortable hands, and fears become safety, something truly amazing is happening. And sometimes a good weekend is just a good weekend.

- On the heels of the recommendation of their music a few posts back, The Avett Brothers are coming to Houston on November 3rd. They’ll be playing small, outer stage at Meridian, which should be appropriately claustrophobic. Be there for a foot-stomping good time.

-Great. Now that Astros season is over and the Rockets are still in pre-season, there’s not a single Houston sports team still playing that I really know much about. Don’t tell anyone at Houstonist, please.

- I’ve been to LaPorte twice in the past week, and I may be going again on Wednesday. I keep expecting to look at the passenger seat of my car and see Dante sitting there, recording my descent drive.

-Divine Reserve no. 5 is the best beer St. Arnold’s has ever made. It’s like espresso with 10% alcohol.

- Is this a job or a support group for web junkies like me?

All esoteric nonsense aside, I’ll post something legitimate at some point in the future. But I’m not making any promises.