Things overheard at Austin coffee shops:

Dude: "Why would you want to raise another consumer, ya know?"

Girl: "Yeah, I feel you on that."

This is shortly before this guy goes on the normal spiel about starting a farm with his buddies that is "a symbiotic thing" and self-sustaining. And using the word "consuming" as a way to describe the definition of evil.

Doubt he knows how to farm on that sort of level, or if he understands the consequences for most people on earth if all of a sudden we all stop consuming.

He then goes on to simultaneously defend the Hispanic community for being "human beings, too" before going on to say that families with five kids are parasites.

And then, in the midst of describing some argument he'd had with a woman who doesn't see child birth as a bad thing:

"That whole 'Manifest Destiny' shit's out the door, fool. That shit's old school."

No idea where that line came from.

"Knocked down... OH, HE CAUGHT IT! OHHHH, UNBELIEVABLE! MIKE THOMAS! TOUCHDOWN, JAGS! BALLGAME! FIFTY YARDS! WHOAA!"

How do you explain to a hipster what it feels like to be a part of something like this? How do you tell them, "Yes, that's right, me. This happened to me." They're so worried about the tightness of their frayed jean shorts and the fixed nature of their lone bicycle gear that they forget it's cool to be enthusiastic about some things in life. And it bothers me.

Who is Mike Thomas?

I don't have a problem with people being different or Austin being kept weird, but I just hate closed mindedness when it comes to accepting the fact that for some people, moments like the Garrard-Thomas Hail Mary are on the "Where were you when?" level.

I'll tell you exactly where I was: at Tony's house, sitting in the black recliner that is slowly but surely burrowing a hole into Nicks' room

I watched that happen about four hours late. We recorded the game, because I had to go to brunch with my cousins today, and would have missed the first half. There are only 16 Texans games a year, and I don't want to miss even that much of one. But I also relish the rare opportunities for large family gatherings. And so, once again, today proved a great example of why, next to the guaranteed knowledge that I'll always have Cialis when I get older, the invention of DVR is hands down the luckiest thing about being born in my generation.

After my brunch was over, D-Rod and I decided to just go play tennis and watch the game together after that. We were in the middle of having a great day when we rolled over to the house to watch it.

Nick was sitting on the couch with the Dallas game on when we strolled in, but was in the middle of an online poker tournament and put up no resistance to handing over the remote. He had already seen the whole thing, of course, and even with distracted attention, would be sitting through the most heartbreaking loss in franchise history for the second time in one afternoon. And he never gave it away, not for a second.

His girlfriend Allie was there too, and she also ended up watching it for the second time (though she doesn't give a shit about the Texans). David was upstairs in his room. He spent the majority of the time working, but he came down when he needed to.

Like right before this moment.

"I watched the whole thing over just so I could see your reaction," Nick admitted later.

"We were expecting something a little more ... violent," Allie said.

"I thought there'd be stomping, cursing," David said.

"Yeah, like my computer getting thrown out the window or something," Nick added.

What can I say? As Ali Faroukmanesh,

2010 NCAA Tournament

Jason Richardson,

2010 Western Conference Finals

and Landon Donvan would know,


∫

No words.

I have a reputation for unintended violence when crazy stuff goes down during sports games.

Just ask Nick, Jasmine or Korena, respectively.

That's not what happened today, though. Instead, "it was like you weren't even watching the screen," as Allie put it. "I was watching your face the whole time, and your expression honestly did not change at all." She put her face in her hands, and stared blankly, mimicking me.

"It was just like, absolute shock," Nick said.

It had all happened so fast.

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

"Y'all don't happen to be Texans fans do you?"

The couple sitting at that table certainly didn't look like Texans fan, or even sports fans for that matter, but I wanted to commiserate, and they were the only ones nearby. This is how the hipster couple and I met, at Bouldin Creek, the coffee shop where general revolutions are plotted.

"Nah," the guy said. He wasn't smiling, and neither was his girlfriend, who just shook her hand in silence. I doubt she even understood the question.

I continued talking.

"Do you want to see what happened to me tonight?"

It was clear that the video I was trying to play for them was a clip from a football game, and that I am not a football player. So the girl asked, "What happened to you?", clearly showing she didn't understand what was going on.

"Yeah that's right, to me," I said. "As a fan. Watch this." Play, full screen. "This was the low point of my career as a Houston Texans fan." Watch it, damnit.

You know when you try to start joking with someone you don't know, and you assume that the worst case scenario is a polite smile? And then they don't even give you that; they just stare at you blankly, making no pretense about the fact that they would prefer to have been left alone. I hate those moments. Especially when you feel you have to keep the joke going, lest you admit that you lost.

The ball is snapped, Garrard steps back, and lets it fly -- they're just staring, blank faces. The ball is flying through the air, heading in the direction of the end zone -- blank faces, probably longing for the days before I'd entered their lives. I'm looking right at these people as they look at the screen. And they know something crazy is about to happen, but they look very uninterested.

After the catch, and the ensuing celebration, and the replay, I still never got even the slightest nod from the girl. She definitely is the kind of person that has bumper stickers preaching about spirituality, politics and recycling, and yet won't give you the wave when you let her in.

David freaking Garrard. To Mike Thomas. Who is Mike Thomas?

Having your heart ripped out on DVR is an experience I wouldn't wish upon anybody. But really, today was nothing compared to the last DVR'ed Houston sporting even that counted as a "Where where you when ... you wanted to shoot your face off?" moment. That was Game 5 of the 2005 NLCS. Yes, that game.

The "largo home run de Pujols" game.

The Texans' 31-24 loss to Jackonsville today wasn't anywhere on the same level as the Pujols home run. I won't even insult the gravity of that moment, and the effect it had on my pscyhe, by trying to equate the two as being responsible for an identical emotional response. But I can say this with utmost confidence: Today was every Houston Texans fan's low point.

This is in the entire history of the franchise, not this era, or even this season. Vince Young's OT touchdown run was ironic, Kris Brown on Monday night against Tennessee last season was angering, but the Garrard-Thomas 50-yard Hail Mary with 0:03 on the clock was simply a reverse miracle.

What if: Dreessen doesn't fumble? A coin toss, an overtime period, a chance. What if: Antonio Davis doesn't run offsides on the first attempt to run that play, called "Rebound," and give Jacksonville a spot five yards closer to the goal line? I doubt Mike Thomas runs it in from the eight.

What if: the Texans were good at football?

Little Nesta

There is a tradition in my family -- a budding one perhaps, since it's only three generations deep -- about names. It's very simple. The firstborn son is named Robert.

Robert [Insert Middle Name Here] Parsley. Robert Horace, Robert Strake, Robert Bayless.

My grandfather started it after he got back from the war. One of six boys raised in the foothills of east Tennessee, his birth name -- and the name he went by when he was chilling as a pilot in the Caribbean, far from the European theater but close to beautiful, exotic women while he patrolled the tropics looking for German U-Boats -- was Horace.

Horace, obviously, is a terrible name. He didn't like it; thought it wasn't professional enough. So, as a young attorney, and new in town, he affixed the much more regal sounding Robert to the beginning.

The decision ended up leading to me posting this:

The kid that I want to have.

Except for the Catholicism that I abandoned a few years ago, I like tradition. I just don't like the name Robert. Or Bob, or Bobby, for that matter. Or even Robbie. The only guy I know named Robbie is a mega douche Cardinals fan.

Unique names are much better. Like Garland. Apologies to my older sister Elizabeth.

And, of course, I love Bob Marley, who full name was Robert Nesta Marley.

I think you may see where I'm going with this.

Bob Marley wasn't always a Bob. He actually went by his middle name as a kid. Little Nesta, running around Nine Mile Jamaica.

If I ever have a son, inshallah, he'll be the compromise, between tradition and an homage to my idol. And carrying on the family name to boot.

Robert, Nesta, Parsley.

Little Nesta, just running around Austin, Texas.

(Baby.)

Why my buddy is the first dude ever to be stoked on a girl not being able to drink on a first date.

"She's very witty, fun, and hates PDA, just like me."

Great description from my buddy of a first date he just had.

"But she couldn't drink tonight," he said.

"Really? How come?"

(I'm thinking anything from training for a marathon, to getting up early, to on antibiotics.)

"She's donating eggs tomorrow."

"Well," I said, not really knowing how to respond to that (how do you even do that?), "the good thing about that is that you know she won't have any eggs that you can impregnate."

"Yeah, good thing about that is it means I know she'd probably be cool with getting an abortion."

These are my friends. Terrible people.

Austin, Texas, baby.

Just a little something from the archives: Vince Young and my favorite quote ever about Austin, from January 2006.

I was in the stands listening live, and knew I would never again think about my favorite city in Texas in the same way ... baby.

(It's really impossible to spell phonetically the word "baby" as Vince actually says it.)

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.'"

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

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.

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

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.

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

"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.

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

"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.

Like Rain on Your Wedding Day

Three Sudanese freeze to death in 'cool-down' fridge

Aug. 26, 2010

Three residents of the Sudanese city of Port-Sudan have frozen to death in a fridge while seeking shelter from the heat, local media said on Thursday.

Enterprising local businessmen set up the banana refrigerator as a cool-down facility for the melting Sudanese. They charged 5 Sudanese pounds per hour (about $2) for people to sit inside it, local media said.

Port-Sudan medical officials said at least 13 people had suffered from heatstroke over the latest week.

August is the hottest month in northeastern part of Sudan.

Beggars can't be choosers

"Hey man, could you spare maybe just fifty cents?"

Austin is a small enough place to where you get to know the faces of these people after the amount of time I've spent here. And I know this guy. He always asks for "maybe just fifty cents." As if the word "just" has an inflationary effect on the assets with which he's asking you to part.

"Nah man."

(Say four people almost in unison.)

At least he's nice about it. But the homeless dog he's got as his companion isn't gonna make me feel any more sorry for him.

"That's cool. How about a cigarette?"

A reasonable request, even if with all the new taxes they've levied on them in Texas these days, a single cigarette is essentially the exact same in monetary value.

"Do you smoke ultra lights?" I ask, aiming more at making fun of Solomon than placating this really nice homeless guy.

"Sure man, I'll smoke those," he says enthusiastically.

Solomon reaches for his pack, obligated now. "Dick," he mutters under his breath.

The homeless guy accepts the cigarette marketed for women with the grace of a lady, and says, "Hell, beggars can't be choosers!"

"Literally!" I yelled.

He walks off, dog in tow, giving off no indication that he understands the irony that has just transpired.

Amazing.

The costliest four putt of all time.

Never disrespect the sanctity of the golf course bet

"I just don't get why he had to four putt." Russ was still fixated on Chris' short game, two full days after it put him in the predicament that was to dominate the discourse of Tom's and my weekend in Charlottesville. "I mean, just get it close, man."

Russ is one of Lizzie's three older brothers. Tom and I bonded with Russ this weekend, just like we bonded with one of Lizzie's other brothers, Bobby. Russ and Bobby come from a very Italian, very Catholic family in Kentucky that does not exactly subscribe to the notion that the meek shall inherit the earth. While their dapper suits betray an image of men who wouldn't mesh well with two assholes like me and Tom, the reality is quite the opposite. Russ is blunt. Bobby, an instigator. And they both feel strongly about the sanctity of the golf course bet.

Tom is nodding in agreement as Russ goes on about the four putt, and I am too, as we convene outside of Pavilion VII on the Lawn, the center of the UVa campus.

"Yeah," Tom said. "Don't FOUR putt, Chris!"

"Especially when I'm lying six in the rough, off the green," I said, "and he's sitting four with the putter in his hand."

"He ran away," Russ said. "The guy ran, away."

It was an ignominious ending to a golf course that should have ended in permanent brotherhood. But he made the decision that he made, and there's nothing we can do about it now.

Here is what happened.

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

It all started with a decision by Wes, our boy from our first year college dorm whose wedding weekend we were attending in Charlottesville, to put the three of us together in group 1B. Like men do, we played golf the day before Wes was getting married. Gathered together at Birdwood, the same course that the Virginia golf team practices on, was a melange of people connected to the groom through various means: college friends from UVa, his original beach kid crew from Virginia Beach, the male relatives/protectors of the bride, a few of Wes' own kin, and even a random girl of whose identity I'm still unsure.

And then there was Chris, the only one that didn't really fall into any of these categories.

We'd met Chris the night before at Mellow Mushroom, and he was a nice guy. Only a year older than us, he's a lawyer, and he lives in the same town as the bride's family. The reason he was at Wes' golfing event was because his girlfriend is one of the bridesmaids.

"Awww, the boys are playing golf before the wedding tomorrow. You should go! It would be a great opportunity to bond." That was Tom's impression of Chris' girlfriend, exhorting Chris to come out and play with us.

If only she'd known.

"I put Chris in your group because y'all are all like intellectual types," Wes said to Tom and me as we stretched on the first tee. "I figured you could have some interesting conversations."

Big mistake by Wes.

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

"Of all the people to lose a bet to," Martha said, "you and Tom are the worst."

Martha is Tom's girlfriend.

"Martha! What are you talking about? The man made a bet on a golf course."

Tom is nodding vociferously as I admonish his girl.

"You have to follow through on it! It's a BET, on a GOLF COURSE."

Tom has a look of complete bewilderment that Martha is putting up any resistance to the notion that Chris was legally obligated -- verbal contract -- to streak.

There is a nasty rumor going around the wedding party, you see. It appears that Chris has let it be known that he's not going to do it. Even though he gave his word.

"I'm just saying," Martha kept saying. "He probably didn't realize how serious you both were about it."

"Martha," Tom said, taking over. "It's not even a big deal. You just streak."

"Says the man who probably WANTED to lose the bet, so he could streak again." (Tom's nickname in college was "Naked Tom.") "Put yourself in his shoes," she said.

We take a moment, pretend to be pondering, and then both sarcastically reply something along the lines of, "I would streak."

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

Thomas Jefferson is the architect who designed the Lawn, which was the original centerpiece of the University of Virginia. That's the school where we met Wes in 2002, the same year Wes met Lizzie and fell in love. It's where Wes was to later propose to Lizzie, who didn't fall in love with Wes until 2004, maybe 2005 -- you'd have to ask her. And everyone who knows about this school knows it's about tradition. It's not your freshman year; it's your first year. It's not campus; it's Grounds. And in the same spirit, every student, by tradition, is supposed to streak the Lawn. At least once. So in a way, Tom and I were doing Chris a favor. He wanted to bond, right? No better way to do it.

All men are created equal, as Jefferson once wrote.




But only a select few have the opportunity to become more equal than others, by taking off their clothes, and running to the statue of Homer and back, at night.

That is the truth that Tom and I -- and Lizzie's brothers, and every other guy out there -- hold to be self evident.

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

It began as a wager between myself and Tom, just to keep the round more interesting. Eighteen holes, skins style competition, loser doesn't even have to come out of pocket as punishment. He just has to streak. It's easy, and it's perfect, because it's funny.

"Y'all are way too intense," our detractors whined.

"You need to chill out," they lectured.

"Why do you care that much?" they asked.

And so on.

And the only answer we can give is the truth: the man made a bet, on a golf course. Who are we to say that it's okay to just not follow through? This is not Nam There are rules in this country.

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

I was absolute garbage the first eight holes. Blame the beach kids.




A sextuple bogey to lead it off, a series of divots deep enough to pour a foundation into, one shot that I'm pretty sure lost yardage when you factor in the post-hit roll. I was dropping F bombs so ferocious they could've been dropped from the Enola Gay. The result was my name, scribbled with pencil onto the scorecard, and the following numbers to the right: 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0. We were using the same scoring system they use in the groups stage at the World Cup, so a win was worth three, and a tie worth one, and a loss, nothing. Tom had a commanding lead, and Chris was humming along with a six.

This, despite the fact that Chris had only been playing golf since the beginning of the summer. I was a country club kid who went to freaking golf camp a few summers.

"You need this hole," Tom said as our cart pulled up to the ninth tee. "Need to get some momentum going before the back nine."

And that's when I started to turn it on.

By the time we'd gotten to 15, Chris was trailing, and needed to win two of the last three holes to keep his clothes on.

It was the classic problem of rookie golfers: no short game. "It's his Achilles' heel," Tom said.

Just call me Paris.

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

Then I choked. Chris wasn't going down so easily, and he began a furious rally with his back against the wall. Looking back, I guess I should have realized how badly the man did not want to streak by the way he responded, even if he was keeping up with appearances. Smiling, joking around, acting like it wasn't that big of a deal. Just having fun. Bonding. The problem is simply that people like Tom and I don't really realize that such an activity could be considered embarrassing for other people.

He won 16, watched Tom win 17, and all of a sudden, there we were, convened around the 18th green, with Wes, Chase, and the whole VB beach kid crew sitting there watching, waiting for me to chip on. I was lying six; Chris was lying four; my only hope was that Tom, who had only taken three shots, would either tie or beat our lawyer friend, which would secure my second place finish.

But Tom wanted to see a playoff.

"I was seriously prepared to throw it," Tom swore afterwards. "I wanted to see a playoff. Everyone wanted to see a playoff. To watch you having to struggle against Chris like that, to see who would have to streak, it would have been awesome."

"But you know I would have won it anyway." The playoff, if necessary, had been agreed upon as a three hole pitch-and-putt competition between the second and third place finishers.

"Oh, yeah. It's his Achilles' heel," Tom said. "But I still wanted to see a playoff. Then Chris four-putted."

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

Chris avoided us for the rest of the weekend.

We had given him the choice after the round ended: do you want to streak tonight, or tomorrow night?

He chose tomorrow night.

"Good, that will give us more time to hype it up."

I truly believe in my heart that it was at that moment that Chris decided he no longer wanted to bond.

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

Let's flash forward to Saturday night, as the wedding reception is winding down.

"We have to make him do it. How are we going to convince him?"

"I don't know."

Chase had talked a big game earlier, vowing to try and work the girlfriend angle. We'd passed the point in which we could just shame Chris into doing it; that wasn't going to work. The only prayer, in our estimation, was to convince his girlfriend that she was dating a half man. Embarrassed, she would then do the shaming for us. It was a perfect plan.

But just as I predicted, Chase was too nice to even attempt this mission, and left us with no other option than to negotiate.

(Actually, we opted for negotiations after the band refused to make a public service announcement on our behalf.)

Game plan: just make him.

Problem: he didn't want to "get arrested."

Reason: he's a lawyer.

Tom's solution: "What if we do it with you?"

Chris' answer: "Okay, fine."

Tom's condition: "You have to get the bus rowdy."

Martha's commentary when we informed her we had a deal: "I KNEW you would end up doing it with him!"

In all fairness, it was an exceedingly fair proposition. By no means were we obligated to offer to streak with Chris. It was his responsibility. Asking only one little thing of him -- get a bus stuffed with a bunch of open bar'ed 20-something's (and a few grown up relatives of the married couple) rowdy to the idea of him streaking the Lawn at 1 a.m. -- was nothing. We were just happy we had a deal. And to be honest, we were happy for Chris. He was going to look back on this experience and thank us. We were going to bond, after all.

But the bus driver -- she had other plans.

The kids who drive the UVa buses -- that's how we all got from the chapel on Grounds to the reception out by Foxfield -- are classic emo types who hate kids that get rowdy to streaking. They're "different." And they don't want to have to deal with people who are having that much fun.

This girl was a classic UVa bus driver.

"The bus is too full!" she shrieked.

No one paid any attention. The Sublime group singing continued.

"No alcohol on the bus!"

Right. That's like saying you have to fill out the census, or else.

"We're going to fine the bride's family $150!"

I think someone yelled "Who cares! That's nothing!" But I can't remember that clearly.

And then, just as Chris and Tom are about to squeeze on, the driver shuts the doors. The bus is officially full. There will be no streaking.

"Please! You gotta open the doors -- my friend has to go streaking tonight!"

Please. I'm Emo. And your breath reeks. Not gonna happen.

"Fine," I said after her silent glare of a reply. "Can I just get off the bus then?"

"Sure." First time I'd seen the girl smile all night. "Be my guest." And she opens the doors.

Just as putting is Chris' Achilles' heel, feigning defeat is my Trojan horse. The second those doors opened up, I yelled, "Quick! Get on, Tom!"

And Tom pushes Chris onto the bus, quickly following behind him.

Now she's really mad.

"THIS BUS IS NOT LEAVING UNTIL TWO PEOPLE GET OFF!"

She's pretending to not be completely arbitrary in the number she's choosing as a condition for pulling out of the driveway -- as if before these two got on, we were regulation, but now, we're suddenly in violation of some code or law -- but it's pretty transparent. Getting no response from the packed bus (now rapping in unison to 2Pac), she turns off the engine

I wonder if anyone even realized that we weren't moving. The emo girl seethes.

We are going to wait this out, I decide. Eventually, she has to go. There is no way I -- or Tom, or Chris -- am getting off of this bus.

But the driver was pretty hardcore sad emo girl. And stubborn as a mule.

Five, six, seven minutes go by? No idea how many minutes. A while. Engine is still off.

And then, a very unexpected person volunteered to get off of the bus. It was a moment I will never forget. Bobby, Lizzie's brother, and the man who maybe wanted to see Chris streak more than anyone else at the whole wedding, speaks up:

"I'll get off," he says, grabbing his wife's hand. "I'll get off the bus."

It was like the scene of a movie, one that we've all seen, but the title of which we can't quite place. The part of the movie where the loyal friend takes the fall for something everyone knows he didn't do, and willingly accepts the punishment, foregoing the event which the protagonist's crew had been striving for the entire time. I will never forget Bobby's chivalry that night. He, my friends, is the epitome of a real man.

As the doors shut behind him -- I'm sure the driver was pissed that I was still on board -- I got a little choked up. Goodbye, Bobby. This run's for you.

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

All Chris had to do was get the bus rowdy.

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

"Dude. I just watched him run away."

"Who?"

"Chris."

"I don't understand."

"Chris. He ran away! I watched him. He got off the bus, and I saw him darting behind one of the buildings at Boar's Head, running."

(silence)

"I cannot believe this."

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

But it was true. Chris had run away when the bus stopped at his hotel, which was still 10 minutes away from where the rest of us were getting dropped off. There would be no streaking.

One runner in the direction Chris should have gone; one running away.

I was livid. What would Bobby have thought? He had sacrificed so much to make sure this came to fruition, and now, it had just unraveled.

"I cannot BELIEVE this! Who runs away? Who does that?" The open bar was still alive inside of me, and it was speaking in tongues. "I hope his reputation is ruined back home! I hope his girlfriend breaks up with him for this! I hope--"

"That is the most ridiculous thing I've ever heard, Bayless." Inga, Chase's girlfriend, has what we call a "cooler head." I didn't see her point of view in the heat of the moment, but clearly, looking back, I know that some of my hopes were a tad over the line.

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

But I wonder if Russ would agree with me.

He was one of the first people we ran into the next morning, after being up all night and sleeping until just before the breakfast outside Pavilion VII -- which is on the Lawn -- was about to end.

"I can't believe that kid f***ing RAN!" Ah, Russ. "And I was even with his girlfriend last night; she was out with us while he was at the Boar's Head."

Apparently, in running away from us, Chris had even ditched his own woman, and she was getting kind of upset with Russ' unending provocations.

"And I kept saying stuff like, 'What if, one day, you want to go eat at Qdoba, but Chris, he wants to eat somewhere else. What's he gonna do? Is he just going to run? Is he going to run away?'"

Analysis like this is exactly why it was that I had been telling Russ and Bobby the night before how much it sucked that Lizzie was their only sister. I want into this family.

"Every time I see him back home," Russ continued, "you know what I'm going to say, right?"

"What?"

"Why'd you have to four putt?"

Is your name Maya?

"Excuse me, ma'am. Is your name Maya?"

Maya is sitting at a table with her mother under the shade. She's very pretty, and is drinking a Lone Star tall boy at 3 in the afternoon, wearing cowboy boots. A true Texas beauty, with an Austin flavor -- nose ring, bangles on her wrists, and may or may not be wearing deodorant, judging by the kind of dress she's wearing.

"No," she says politely, with a smile. Texans are typically more polite than people from other states.

"You look like Maya (insert some last name here that I couldn't hear)," he says.

This, of course, is a trigger for her to tell him her actual name, which is inaudible from where I'm sitting.

"Hello (insert her name here), I'm Christopher Robin." It is the dead of summer, and Christopher Robin is wearing a hockey jersey, draped over a black polo, as well as jeans and sneakers. I'm sure he is sweating his ass off.

"Christopher Robin?" the pretty girl asks, intrigued. I vaguely recognize the name from some sort of movie or TV show, something like that. "Really?"

"Yes ma'am," he says.

Maya's mother is smiling, possibly because she approves of Christopher Robin's manners. I'm smiling, too, because I know what Christopher Robin is doing.

I find it brilliant in theory, if not awkward in delivery.

He's using the "Are you Maya?" line as an in.

It's a fail safe method to start up a conversation with a pretty girl. No one is going to be threatened by it, and no one will automatically assume you're hitting on them. What you do once you've got the initial hook is up to your abilities, of course. Christopher Robin doesn't appear to have much in that department. But he knows one thing: every pretty girl who is sitting next to him at a coffee shop in Austin looks like Maya.

For the next five minutes, as Maya drinks her beer, and her mother sips a glass of water, Christopher Robin sits in silence, sweating, as I pretend not to be observing from five feet away. There is a lull. Christopher Robin has lost the momentum.

A fresh opportunity presents itself when Maya and her mom wonder out loud who the man portrayed in the mural on the coffee shop's wall is:

"That's the artist who did the painting," Christopher Robin explains, despite not having been asked. "His name is (inaudible)."

"Oh, thanks."

There is no smile this time.

"You're welcome," he says.

The wheels have come off the train.

From now on, though, I'm putting that one in the database for safe keeping, the next time I want to use that card. Are you Maya? No. Oh, you look like my friend Maya. What's you're name?

She tells you. You introduce yourself. And you've broken the ice. It's all up to you from that point forward.

When Maya and her mom get up to leave, they do not say goodbye to Christopher Robin. And he is still sitting there, sweating, possibly wondering why he is wearing both a black polo and a hockey jersey on a blazing hot August afternoon in Austin, Texas.