The News Feed Giveth.
The News Feed Taketh Away.

Matt's got himself in what I like to call a good old fashioned pickle.

We're changing the girl's name, though, to Danica.

He met her something like ten years ago, an innocent, high school fling. Was it at summer camp? Something like that. It lasted no more than two weeks, but it left quite the mark on Matt's memory. Everything is so much more intense at that age, when you're experiencing firsts left and right: drinking, driving, drinking and driving, sex...ual acts of some kind, depending on how baller you are for your age. Even bad stuff like pimples and your voice cracking and getting cut from sports teams is new to you when you're 15 or 16, and these events have the ability to linger with you for much longer than they probably should. You simply haven't lived for that many years at that point, and so each one that you go through is a much bigger fraction of your formative experience.

We all have our own version of Danica, then, from when we were young. Mine is from college; Matt's is from high school.

There was no such thing as Facebook back then. They were simpler times that kids today don't understand. Matt wouldn't have seen the pickle coming had he been born in the 90's. But then again, the opportunity would have never presented itself, either, had status updates not been so prolific in today's society.

I've written about my feelings on the "So and so is in a relationship with" feature on the Newsfeed before. The reason I hate it is because of the law of physics that what goes up, must come down. It's all good when you're getting heart icons next to your name, because it is a celebration of promise, of limitless possibility. But it's either humiliating or irritating when you get the broken heart icon that signifies the end of this celebration. (Irritating is not getting a trophy icon with a heart on top of it if you're stoked on getting out of the relationship.)

Danica and Matt went their separate ways after that summer of love, and they lived separate lives. High school, college, their various travels and first jobs, all of these milestones, they passed by. They stayed in touch periodically, and that promise, the youthful feeling of limitless possibility, it never quite died. Matt says they'd write each other emails on their birthdays -- Hey, how's life? -- and later, once it was invented, send Facebook messages and the like. Maybe I made that last part up; it could have been just email.

But Facebook definitely plays a part in the next stage of the story.

Danica had a boyfriend until just recently. A serious, long term one, of four or five years. Matt had simply accepted it as part of the status quo. And then, one day...

"I see her on the News Feed," he says -- quick to add that he "doesn't even check Facebook that often," which is what everyone who checks Facebook all the time says, but that "it just popped up the one time I was on" -- "and I see that (Danica Patrick) 'is now single.'"

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Back up. First let me explain why I'm calling her Danica Patrick: Because as I was writing this story over at Tony's house, I saw the Go Daddy commercial that has the actor who looks identical to Matt, freaked out at my good luck (because who likes to read long stories with no pictures?), and paused the TV to snap a photo with my phone.

Mouth agape, chin is right about the "y" in "Go Daddy.com"

This was the Super Bowl commercial where they all do an amazing job of acting like they think Danica Patrick is hot.

She's not.

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Okay we're back. Danica is now single.

"And I was just like," -- (he mimes the typing of keys on a keyboard) -- "bam, emailed her right there."

Hey. How's life?

Long story short: she booked a flight, all the way from the Pacific Northwest, just to see Matt.

That feeling of limitless possibility, it was back. When Matt had originally suggested she come down for Austin City Limits, a three-day music festival right by his apartment, she'd shot him down, but not because she doesn't like music.

"She said she wanted to spend time just with me."

Go, Daddy!

And then, just like that, it was over.

Danica is in a relationship.

(Hidden subtext: Again. With her ex-boyfriend.)

The News Feed giveth, and the News Feed taketh away. And this brings us to the pickle part of the story.

Matt's initial move was obvious: wait to see if Danica is going to tell him or not. Is she the kind of girl that would try to pull the, "What? We're just friends" line, or is she a rational human being.

The odds of the latter possibility being reality decreased with every passing day that she failed to speak up. The topic remained taboo. After all, they'd never actually spoken about what exactly triggered Matt's initial email (as far as I'm aware of, at least). But wasn't it obvious enough? Did this loophole give her the plausible deniability that would be required to act like friendship was her only aim the entire time?

The weeks leading up to this trip were full of threats and declarations by Matt, and questions and advice from us. "I'm just gonna tell her don't come." That was the most common Matt one. Or, "If she comes, she's not staying at my place. Are you kidding? No way."

We, of course, were pretty much unanimous in our position as friends: "You gotta call her out, dude." And some other things, which are not fit for print, nor even an reference on a Go Daddy Internet commercial.

There was one moment, I'll admit, when I got a little soft, the romantic inside of me proving that he is not completely dead after a year and a half of the job I've got these days. But even then, when I was encouraging him to see what was there, I included a stipulation: you gotta call her out, and ask.

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"Did Matt ever say anything to her by the way?"

"I don't think so man. I think she just came."

"That's good. That sounds about right."

--------------------------------------------------------------------

That was on Friday, when Danica's boyfriend introduced himself as an active participant in the story.

I don't remember what Matt said the text read like exactly, but I know this: Danica's boyfriend did not give a shit about "informing" Matt that his girl had left her phone at home. It was nice of him to pretend like he was just being nice, don't get me wrong. The forced, non-threatening "Thanks!" included at the end was a nice touch. But the entire act of directly contacting Matt the morning Danica left was basically no different than a dog lifting his leg and urinating all over and around the fire hydrant that is his girlfriend.

... who is now in a relationship, again.

(Actually that is a great idea. Facebook should totally have the "again" addendum automatically added to anyone that gets back together with an ex within two weeks.)

The tone of the entire weekend had basically been set, even though Danica was still on a plane, probably not even in Texas airspace yet. It was like Brady tearing his ACL against Kansas City in the season opener following their Super Bowl run the year before.

"Playoffs?!"

At least it was just the weekend, though. He could get through it and then tell us about the awkwardness around the water cooler on Monday.

Or not. Or he could have taken Monday and Tuesday as vacation days, and turned it into a four night, five day awk festival. So much more fun than a three day rock festival, since it is "just" Mat and Danica.

How Matt is feeling right now.

Without divulging too many personal details, I'll just summarize it by saying that Danica's visit was perhaps not exactly what Matt had dreamt it would be.

"Dude, please come hang out today with us."

"I don't know man, I wouldn't want to interrupt..."

Which I didn't. Kyle didn't either. For starters, it was funnier this way. But even without that, who wants to pay $15 to go see semi-pro Austin Aztex play soccer against "St. Louis"? (Matt said there wasn't even a team name for the opponent readily visible in the stadium; it was just called "St. Louis," as if it was a Buffalo Wild Wings commercial.)

And so, after letting the two friends without benefits enjoy their Friday and Saturday nights together, I finally got to meet Danica on Sunday afternoon, when they came over to watch the Texans-Cowboys game at Tony's house.

She walked in wearing a Tony Romo jersey.

Didn't matter that it wasn't even her jersey, or her team, or that she didn't like sports at all. Matt may have forced her to wear it, but I didn't care. Strike one.

Then, when I was telling her about Yingtai and Double Rainbow, and set her up with Tony's laptop and the original footage on YouTube so she could see it, too, she didn't laugh.

"It's starting to look like a triple rainbow."

She didn't even chuckle.

"This goes on for how long?" she asked.

"Six minutes," I said, incorrectly. It's actually only three and a half minutes long.

"But why would I want to watch this for six minutes?"

(silence)

I don't even understand the question... what does this mean?

Any girl who doesn't think Double Rainbow is funny is no match for my friend Matt.

Strike two.

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"You know I'm recycling now, too, right?" Matt, the opposite of an environmentalist, said when we were taking a man break outside during half time.

"For what, the next two days?"

"Yeah."

She's from the Pacific Northwest.

And so thus concludes the story about Matt and the pickle he is currently in. The lesson is that Facebook is both a blessing and a curse. A blessing in that it provides valuable intelligence in departments such as, "Is she still hot?" and "Did she just break up with her boyfriend of five years?" A curse because it also informs us of when she immediately gets back together with him.

"Wouldn't change anything," he texted me at one point during this tribulation, trying his best to be optimistic. And that's a good attitude to have. Honestly, it is. Sure, it sucks to have the scent of her boyfriend's territorial piss lingering in your apartment for five days, but at least you get the story.

But hey, maybe I've spoken too soon. She leaves Tuesday, which is today, but it's midnight right now. And the stench on that fire hydrant may have started to wear off.

Actually just go to my blog.

You never know.

"probably i need to go outside"

There was a discussion today on one of our email lists at work about a double rainbow. Here is what the email (subject line: DOUBLE RAINBOW!) said:

It's outside right now!

I think it might be turning into a TRIPLE rainbow! 

OH MY GOD!!!! 

It's so intensE!! 

It was a joke, of course. If you don't get it, stop reading, and do me two favors before you continue.

1) Watch this:

2) Watch this:

There are a lot of international employees at my job. They all speak English, but some are better than others.

One of these foreigners is a girl whom I will call Yingtai, to protect her identity. Yingtai is from China, and actually speaks about the best English I've ever encountered for someone from this country.

But while Yingtai is basically fluent, she isn't a walking dictionary. She struggles to understand pop culture references. That's always the last thing you learn when you're learning a new language.

When Yingtai saw that I had replied to the thread about the intense double rainbow that was starting to look like a triple rainbow, claiming that it was so vivid that I couldn't even capture it on my camera, she sent me an instant message.

She has a window seat, you see, but she couldn't see any full on double rainbow all the way across the sky. And she wanted to know one thing about the email chain claiming it was out there: What does this mean?

Yingtai
11:57
where is the double rainbow

Me
12:00
it's full on
all the way across the sky
so intense
do you not see it?

Yingtai
12:03
I went to your seat and tried to see what I can find, but still nothing
and nothing can be seen from my seats...

Me
12:04
yingtai, what does this mean?

Yingtai
12:05
I mean, I saw discussion on the list, and I really want to see double rainbow. and you said you see it very intense, I thought you are in the office, so I walked to your seat, but still can't find anything from there

Me
12:05
well i can see it from marko's house, too
i'm not at the office
oh my god
it's starting to look like a TRIPLE rainbow now
WHOA!

Yingtai
12:06
could you please take a picture? I never saw that before, really want to see it

Me
12:06
whoaaaaa ho hooo, OH MY GOD!
whoooooooooo!
WOW
yingtai
you need to look again

Yingtai
12:06
..?

Me
12:06
i am about to cry, it is so amazing
oh my god it's full on

Yingtai
12:07
probably I need to go outside

Me
12:07
what does this mean??
it's so bright
oh my god it's so bright and vivid
OHHH!

Yingtai
12:07
wait...
are you just kidding???????

Me
12:08
yes
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OQSNhk5ICTI

Yingtai
12:08
I hate you

By the way, she forgave me. After I gave her a hug, and read an exchange she'd had with another one of our coworkers, in which she said, "I hate him."

Much has been made of the anger that exists among certain members of the Tea Party movement.

And then there's this guy, who is a Republican.

Relax, guy.

"And you know it has a lot of cuss words."

Recently, I've taken an interest in trying to record things, funny things, and then try to make stories that way. I don't know what I'm doing. Which is why I'm glad there are men like Pranjal Dhungan out there.

The anticipation... I can't stand it anymore.... what is Pranjal going to present? Who is this guy??

Who is Pranjal Dhungan? I don't know. Neither does Google, apparently. I searched for his name, and only one result came back. Surely no other man on earth has only one Google result come back when you look for his name. Go ahead, try it. Think of the person with the most unique name you know. Mine is pretty unique, and there are 237,000 entries (very few of which are related to myself). That is 237,000 times more than the mysterious Pranjal Dhungan.

Pranjal is an Indian kid who can't be more than 12 years old. At least, when he recorded his tutorial that was how old he sounded.

Even if you have no intention of learning how to create censor sounds on a program called Audacity, I urge you (especially you, Hanly; I know you will love this kid) to watch the video below.

"And you know it has a lot of cuss words. I'm just sayin'."


Warning: I advise you to not take a sip of any liquid at the 1:37 mark

As Pranjan says, "I hope you now believe me."

I've now watched this video about 10 times more than the number of Google hits that comes back when you search Pranjan's whole name. Of all the questions I have swirling around inside, one is gnawing at me the most. And that is this: How can Pranjan think that he does have to silence the word that comes after "these"?

Oh, and one more thing: Definitely go to the actual YouTube URL and read the comments from the viewers. And again, put down any liquids you may be holding.

The Ole Ingram Social Club

No "other" place like it

Whenever I feel like I'm getting stale, having been living back in the States now for over two years, missing the excitement of the foreign and the new -- the "other" -- it's always helpful to role play.

I'm not from Houston; I don't live in Austin; I've never heard of George Strait. I'm from somewhere else, far, far away, and here I am, stuck, deep in the heart of Texas. How am I feeling about my surroundings now?

Deep in the heart of Texas

"This feels exactly like I'm in a kafana in south Serbia."

Marko was born in Belgrade, so he understands the basis for my comparison: low education levels and cigarette smoke. Lots of the latter at the Ole Ingram Social Club, the only bar in Ingram, which is the nearest actual town to Hunt, which is essentially a Texan village. Smoking indoors is a rarity in big city America these days, but not at the Social Club, just like in south Serbia.

People aren't Gucci at the Social Club

"I've always said it, dude," Marko said.

"What?"

"Serbia is really similar to Texas."

And if you were to listen to Serb nationalists paint a picture of doom, one day, Mexico will be our Kosovo.

One day after Marko and I had stopped in for that quick beer, we came back with the rest of the group.

The others were already owning the place by the time the second carload of people rolled in. They'd already filled up the juke box queue, held pool cues in their hands, knew people's names, and were just being all around social at the ole club.

Ben, the only actual foreigner in the group (as Marko is pretty much a U.S. citizen at this point, and Ben's friend Fidel is getting really good at English, really quickly), was over there "othering," as the more intellectual members of the crew put it. Ben, who is from Berlin -- "West Berlin," to be exact -- likes to convince himself that his whiteness is somehow less real than ours, since he is exotic and from Europe, where they never had slavery, and where no one ever voted for George Bush. They did start two world wars last century, but let's move past that. This allows Ben to be one with the people.

His "othering" only goes so far, though, as the pretty girl in pink, sitting there all alone, just begging with her eyes to be his Eva, can attest to.

Ich liebe dich, Ben! Ich möchte Ihnen zu zeigen, um mir zu zeigen Ihre Currywurst mit Pommes!

In fact, Shannon, the only Wisconsin native I've ever chilled with in the Hill Country, may be more "other" than Ben, even. And she's American.

Her official Ole Ingram Social Club hat, cigarette-in-mouth and badass demeanor at the pool table made Shannon lots of local "other" admirers that night

As well as non-other admirers

Though there were a few dudes who were more into "other" dudes... not that there's anything wrong with that


Unnecessary quotes are really annoying, so from now on I'm just going to stop using them with the word other.

Clint was othering, too, by the way.

"I am, ma'am."

"What IS it?"

Read that in the most Texan accent possible, and you've got it nailed. That's the question one of the other lovely Social Club regulars asked ole Matt Solomon's buddy Clint when he rolled in wearing his Texas Law School t-shirt.

"What is what?" he asked, confused.

"What is," she repeated, before pausing to enunciate, "the Texas law?"

(I would try to write the last word phonetically, as it was pronounced in Clint's impersonation, but it's not possible to do so. We don't have the technology.)

"The Texas law," Clint said, without missing a beat, "is that anyone can do whatever they want, as long as they don't hurt anybody else."

"I like that," she said, nodding in approval.

(It would have been a lot more badass had he answered with, "I am, ma'am.")




To really other, though, at the Social Club, you need to buy a hat.

I bought two of them as gifts: one for Ben, who is going home this week, and the other for Marko, who, by grace of having been to Ole Ingram Social Club the night before with me, was a regular at this point. Regulars need hats.

"I love that it has the rope thingy," someone said.

What I love even more, though, is when you look a little closer.




Stewart, Mystic, La Junta, HOH, and Vista Camps... all .... places in Texas, right? Spaced out by about 100 miles in total area ... right?

Wrong. They are all summer camps in the same freaking town.

And for some reason, the only bar in Ingram feels so connected to these summer camps that it includes them on the official cap of the only bar in Ingram.

Anyway.

"How much for the hats?" I ask to whoever may be listening. It's hard to distinguish between owner, bartender and regular at this place.

"Eleven bucks," a random guy next to me answers with authority.

"No," the woman behind the bar says, "it's $15."

"It's $20!" an intoxicated local next to the man yells right after that. She's easily the hottest local in the bar, which makes her about a 4 out of 10, about the same score I'd give her myriad tattoos on a scale of tattoo quality.

"Which one is it?" I ask, as the bartender takes one off the wall. She examines it closely, and furrows her brow. She then blows on it with sudden gusto, and clumps of dust and other particles of inertia carom into the immediate atmosphere. Not many people are buying hats these days, it seems. Not in this economy.

The 4 takes over the negotiations, walking behind the bar and taking hold of the hat.

"I was goin' say," she says flirtatiously, as she covers her boobs with the hat, doing a sort of strip tease type dance, "give me $20 and I'll" -- she drops the hat down low, showing me what I'd be seeing if she wasn't wearing her black tube top.

She continues to act like she's all sexy as I throw up a little bit in my mouth, smiling all the while as I pretend to remain interested. Just give me that hat, lady. It costs $11.

As the bartender pulls down the second one for me, the 4 asks whether or not I'm going to buy her a drink.

I decline.

-------------------------------------------------

This story, unsurprisingly, is a hit with my friends. They begin to advocate that I go back and "see if the offer is still on the table." So I do. Because it's funny.

And here is what she says:

"Hellll yeah. Twenty fo'20, nigga."

[Note: I am not black, and nor is she. And nor is anyone else who has ever been served at the Ole Ingram Social Club.]

No one really knew what the other 20 stood for.

Matt guessed, though: "Minutes?"

"Ya know what, I bet that's exactly what it is."

"I wonder if I could go ask her if three for three is available."

Stay classy, Ingram.