I was in Nashville. I remember that much. More than likely sipping on a cheap beer, watching baseball in a smoky bar. That's kind of my 'down time' thing, and I require a LOT of down time. My job sucked, not that it sucked so much as I sucked at performing just about every task it required. Dad's side of the family lives in Nashville and it seemed like a good idea to move back there from Austin and try to strengthen family ties that had unwound over the years through neglect and outright slander.
Bad idea. We saw one another less than we did when I lived 1,000-miles away. C'est la vie, life goes on, your favorite cliche here. In the end, I'm just not a settle down and get married, have kids, picket fences guy - nor am I the water-cooler-did-you-see-The-Good-Wife-last-night, cubical guy. Just not, I've tried to shoehorn that life in many times, to the detriment of my soul, the goodwill of old friends and Corporate America alike. Actually, Corporate American can bite me.
It was in said, nameless, smoky bar that it occurred to me that I could go back to contract, freelance work and simply travel, living off those wages. Probably so much to the chagrin of my accountant (sorry, Dave) that he'll kill me, but it had to be attempted. There were too many places to see, way too many than anyone could ever have time to truly soak in. So it was time to get going. On a good day, I'm about 1/2 as witty and 1/4 charismatic as Anthony Bourdain - RIP, sir - who passed after this journey began, but I was going to try it anyway.
Where to first? Well, I'd have to stay at my brother Josh's one more time, one of my favorite places in the world. Not because it's Shangri La, but because it's where my beautiful nieces live, where that family's big hearts reside, where Juice and I have started and maybe even finished several home improvement projects, it's just a good place. It's where Madelyn makes me smile, Claudia cracks me up, Annabelle freaks me out and Liz listens. (the nieces) Then, I'd have to hit New Orleans, see what the Hawkins clan was up to, maybe finally get to wrestle with Helen Hawkins, future HoF pro wrassler and current 2-year-old cutie.
Then I'd HAVE to stop in Austin one more time. See the crew, say hey to some old friends and head up with Angus Black's wedding in Upstate New York.
So that's what I did. Took a bus at 3:25am on Tuesday, June 5th from Nashville to Birmingham. Josh even got up to drive me to the bus station in downtown Nashville, hell of an experience in and of itself. Why the bus? When you're not sure where you're going but you know it's far and for a long time, you travel cheaply. If I did it all over again, I'd have flown.
New Orleans, LA - Thursday, June 7th, 2018. Augie Hawkins was my little brother's best friend in high school. He and I have kept in touch over the years because we both share a completely unrealistic view of the world. He's an incredible golfer, (-6 after one round, kind of golfer), owns his own landscaping business in the sweatiest city in America and is married to the very intelligent and beautiful Mrs. Hawkins. Together, they have an overly cute little girl. They're making it work in a lazy city.
That same city has 24-hour bars. Bars that you can walk into any day of the week and sit and drink and smoke (inside) at any time of day/night you wish. Not in the Quarter, either. These are neighborhood bars with chicken wire over the console TV screen, types of joints. I love them dearly, they represent my slightly skewed Tom Waits song of a life and I visit them whenever I can. And the Hawkins clan too but man, the bars are pretty great.
On this trip to New Orleans, after the Hawkins family laid their heads down, I walked down to their closest 24-hours bar. It's called The Pit Stop, usually a bunch of motorcycles outside, always a good sign if you're looking to avoid boredom. It's 9pm, the Knights are playing the Senators in the Stanley Cup, life's good, I take a seat at the far end of the bar near the restrooms and beer cooler. The lovely (Mary? Something like that) is nice enough to turn the hockey on for me and sets me up with a PBR tall boy and Jameson side car. Because I'm classy.
The room is calm, a couple of "ladies" at the other end of the bar look like they were poured into their seats a couple hours earlier. They're enjoying some dude's company. A couple bikers are playing pool, the jukebox is humming along with some Meloncamp, it's a nice little Thursday. Then two more bikers walk in. No big whoop, they commiserate with the other two guys, time passes, they're playing doubles.
After a bit, one of them comes up and asks me where I got my koozie. It's a Goldthwaite, TX music festival koozie my buddy Marc brought back a couple years ago. And I carry because, as I stated, I'm classy. I told him what little I know about the actual festival and he seemed not to give too much of a shit, then I lifted it to drink and he saw the state of Texas shape that adorns the very bottom and got a big smile on his face. His name was Dale and he was the head honcho of the cadre of gentlemen now gathered around the pool table. Dale is from Orange, TX originally and told me about some of the times he's had riding across the state and - well, let's just say Dale's in a band. I won't mention the name of the band, but they're 1%ers.
Yeah, like on that TV show. But without the makeup and pretty lighting. Terry comes over to get beers and have Dale take the next shot and things go back to the way they were before. After a brief pause, Terry wants to know what the hell I'm watching. I explain that it's the NHL Stanley Cup and these are the best two teams and it's the finals, etc. He doesn't care. I mention that it's the only sport where two guys, at any moment, will just drop their gloves and start duking it out and receive little more than a few minutes in the penalty box. He's heard of it, but never really seen it. He starts watching and you can tell it's kind of interesting to him. He's off to the table with the beers.
End of period. Dale wants to know if I want to play pool. I very politely decline, letting him know I'm out of practice and was never that good anyway, plus the hockey's about to come back on. "What's that shit all about anyway?" He asks, so I start with the very basics, not that I'm a pro on the matter but I've watched my fair share. Now Terry's back, didn't catch the other guy's name but another guy is listening in. The game starts back up and they're all genuinely interested and watching. They like the check into the boards, that much becomes clear as I watch them watch hockey.
We have a beer as a small group, watching hockey. The other guys play pool, Terry and Dale kind of keep an eye on the TV and eye on the money on the table. We shoot the shit a little bit and then Terry asks me if I want to go shoot guns with them around midnight. As I start to explain that I'm a working stiff who needs to be up around 6am, I'm just staying near the bar, was about to make up a fictional family to get out of it, a small group of guys who'd gathered near the jukebox unnoticed play an Eminem song. Dale's not excited about this, in a good way.
Words are exchanged but it becomes clear quite rapidly that the jukebox overgrown fraternity guys realize who and what they're dealing with and demure at an embarrassing pace. The bartender clicks a remote and fast forwards to the next Allman Brothers type song and tempers are restored as the jukebox boys tiptoe out the door. I can't hear what's said entirely as Terry escorts them out, but it's unpleasant. Dale appears and slaps me on the back saying he 'hates that rap shit' or something close to it. The night's a tad blurry, but I'm pretty sure one of the khaki-clad, popped collar kids who thought it would be cool to stop in a dive bar pissed himself.
A brawl is avoided thanks to the lack of testosterone and any familial preparation given to the former Tulane pledges and life moves along and so does the hockey. I'm not sure whether Marshall Mathers will ever get to hear about it, but he kind of saved me from awkwardly accepting an invitation to go shoot guns with bikers at midnight - I'll never know at whom or what we were going to shoot.
It was time to move on to Austin.
Bad idea. We saw one another less than we did when I lived 1,000-miles away. C'est la vie, life goes on, your favorite cliche here. In the end, I'm just not a settle down and get married, have kids, picket fences guy - nor am I the water-cooler-did-you-see-The-Good-Wife-last-night, cubical guy. Just not, I've tried to shoehorn that life in many times, to the detriment of my soul, the goodwill of old friends and Corporate America alike. Actually, Corporate American can bite me.
It was in said, nameless, smoky bar that it occurred to me that I could go back to contract, freelance work and simply travel, living off those wages. Probably so much to the chagrin of my accountant (sorry, Dave) that he'll kill me, but it had to be attempted. There were too many places to see, way too many than anyone could ever have time to truly soak in. So it was time to get going. On a good day, I'm about 1/2 as witty and 1/4 charismatic as Anthony Bourdain - RIP, sir - who passed after this journey began, but I was going to try it anyway.
Where to first? Well, I'd have to stay at my brother Josh's one more time, one of my favorite places in the world. Not because it's Shangri La, but because it's where my beautiful nieces live, where that family's big hearts reside, where Juice and I have started and maybe even finished several home improvement projects, it's just a good place. It's where Madelyn makes me smile, Claudia cracks me up, Annabelle freaks me out and Liz listens. (the nieces) Then, I'd have to hit New Orleans, see what the Hawkins clan was up to, maybe finally get to wrestle with Helen Hawkins, future HoF pro wrassler and current 2-year-old cutie.
Then I'd HAVE to stop in Austin one more time. See the crew, say hey to some old friends and head up with Angus Black's wedding in Upstate New York.
So that's what I did. Took a bus at 3:25am on Tuesday, June 5th from Nashville to Birmingham. Josh even got up to drive me to the bus station in downtown Nashville, hell of an experience in and of itself. Why the bus? When you're not sure where you're going but you know it's far and for a long time, you travel cheaply. If I did it all over again, I'd have flown.
New Orleans, LA - Thursday, June 7th, 2018. Augie Hawkins was my little brother's best friend in high school. He and I have kept in touch over the years because we both share a completely unrealistic view of the world. He's an incredible golfer, (-6 after one round, kind of golfer), owns his own landscaping business in the sweatiest city in America and is married to the very intelligent and beautiful Mrs. Hawkins. Together, they have an overly cute little girl. They're making it work in a lazy city.
That same city has 24-hour bars. Bars that you can walk into any day of the week and sit and drink and smoke (inside) at any time of day/night you wish. Not in the Quarter, either. These are neighborhood bars with chicken wire over the console TV screen, types of joints. I love them dearly, they represent my slightly skewed Tom Waits song of a life and I visit them whenever I can. And the Hawkins clan too but man, the bars are pretty great.
On this trip to New Orleans, after the Hawkins family laid their heads down, I walked down to their closest 24-hours bar. It's called The Pit Stop, usually a bunch of motorcycles outside, always a good sign if you're looking to avoid boredom. It's 9pm, the Knights are playing the Senators in the Stanley Cup, life's good, I take a seat at the far end of the bar near the restrooms and beer cooler. The lovely (Mary? Something like that) is nice enough to turn the hockey on for me and sets me up with a PBR tall boy and Jameson side car. Because I'm classy.
The room is calm, a couple of "ladies" at the other end of the bar look like they were poured into their seats a couple hours earlier. They're enjoying some dude's company. A couple bikers are playing pool, the jukebox is humming along with some Meloncamp, it's a nice little Thursday. Then two more bikers walk in. No big whoop, they commiserate with the other two guys, time passes, they're playing doubles.
After a bit, one of them comes up and asks me where I got my koozie. It's a Goldthwaite, TX music festival koozie my buddy Marc brought back a couple years ago. And I carry because, as I stated, I'm classy. I told him what little I know about the actual festival and he seemed not to give too much of a shit, then I lifted it to drink and he saw the state of Texas shape that adorns the very bottom and got a big smile on his face. His name was Dale and he was the head honcho of the cadre of gentlemen now gathered around the pool table. Dale is from Orange, TX originally and told me about some of the times he's had riding across the state and - well, let's just say Dale's in a band. I won't mention the name of the band, but they're 1%ers.
Yeah, like on that TV show. But without the makeup and pretty lighting. Terry comes over to get beers and have Dale take the next shot and things go back to the way they were before. After a brief pause, Terry wants to know what the hell I'm watching. I explain that it's the NHL Stanley Cup and these are the best two teams and it's the finals, etc. He doesn't care. I mention that it's the only sport where two guys, at any moment, will just drop their gloves and start duking it out and receive little more than a few minutes in the penalty box. He's heard of it, but never really seen it. He starts watching and you can tell it's kind of interesting to him. He's off to the table with the beers.
End of period. Dale wants to know if I want to play pool. I very politely decline, letting him know I'm out of practice and was never that good anyway, plus the hockey's about to come back on. "What's that shit all about anyway?" He asks, so I start with the very basics, not that I'm a pro on the matter but I've watched my fair share. Now Terry's back, didn't catch the other guy's name but another guy is listening in. The game starts back up and they're all genuinely interested and watching. They like the check into the boards, that much becomes clear as I watch them watch hockey.
We have a beer as a small group, watching hockey. The other guys play pool, Terry and Dale kind of keep an eye on the TV and eye on the money on the table. We shoot the shit a little bit and then Terry asks me if I want to go shoot guns with them around midnight. As I start to explain that I'm a working stiff who needs to be up around 6am, I'm just staying near the bar, was about to make up a fictional family to get out of it, a small group of guys who'd gathered near the jukebox unnoticed play an Eminem song. Dale's not excited about this, in a good way.
Words are exchanged but it becomes clear quite rapidly that the jukebox overgrown fraternity guys realize who and what they're dealing with and demure at an embarrassing pace. The bartender clicks a remote and fast forwards to the next Allman Brothers type song and tempers are restored as the jukebox boys tiptoe out the door. I can't hear what's said entirely as Terry escorts them out, but it's unpleasant. Dale appears and slaps me on the back saying he 'hates that rap shit' or something close to it. The night's a tad blurry, but I'm pretty sure one of the khaki-clad, popped collar kids who thought it would be cool to stop in a dive bar pissed himself.
A brawl is avoided thanks to the lack of testosterone and any familial preparation given to the former Tulane pledges and life moves along and so does the hockey. I'm not sure whether Marshall Mathers will ever get to hear about it, but he kind of saved me from awkwardly accepting an invitation to go shoot guns with bikers at midnight - I'll never know at whom or what we were going to shoot.
It was time to move on to Austin.
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