USA trip Nov. 2010, part 7


Today Brian’s leaving for Los Angeles to work. Bobby is here, and may also be leaving but for Dallas. would love to spend more time with him before he’s going back.

Yesterday, we all got in Brian’s car – by now routine – and went mountain-climbing; not as in “brought our climbing gear” but as in “went up a rock and peered over the edge”. Ooh, vertigo. I used to have a really bad case of it when I was a child but not so much now. Still, when all that separates me from a swift, free fall into cactii and eventually rock or water is about half a mile of gravity, I’m not that cocky. We took some pictures and I can’t wait to see Brian’s pics. That’s one good thing about Facebook.

The weather was splendid. All sun, no winds, just brilliant. Before leaving the house for the climbing expedition, I watched some TV broadcast from an American court, where a guy was on trial for having downed 7-12 drinks, gone driving and “killed” his shotgun passenger by crashing his car. He was an American football star. What difference does it make? Anyway, a doctor of some sort was clearly working for the defense and would rarely say yes or no to straight questions. Like watching a bull trying to delicately dance to an operetta. Then on to some series that showed some “best blunders”, which apparently included films of real people in convenience stores having to deal with cars crashing in, and of high-jumping motorcyclists who couldn’t make their jumps. C’mon, it was the day after. Shit TV is always OK then.

Following the climbing, oh yeah, we went to a café where we had coffee. My second time having coffee in five days, I think, which is extremely rare when in Stockholm, when I have coffee morning, noon and mid-day. Always. And I’m feeling slightly detoxed now, which of course is great; I have to cut down on that stuff.

The café was situated somewhere close to the most posh parts of Austin, where movie-people own houses. The place we went was mostly vegan, and I had a very fresh (and big) cinnamon roll. Mia and Bobby shared a slice of peanut butter pie and Brian was being ascetic with his coffee. Hand-drawn signs said stuff like “Thank you for supporting our local business! Please come back and bring a friend!” while the inside had little ones saying “Clint [Eastwood] will kill you if you steal anything!”. The outdoorsy – Ha! I’ve been waiting to use that fake word – restroom had a blackboard with crayons.

The sun went down quickly. You can see that coming about 30 minutes before it’s completely gone and darkness prevails, along with brightly coloured street lights. And so, we talked more about The Human Centipede and left for the city, where we visited Jackalope, a place where a scantily clad waitress wearing bizarre make-up got us deep-fried fries filled with fat. Mmm-good. Then off to the pub trivia place where we called our team Better Late Than Pregnant and we didn’t win. A lot of questions were sports-based and Brian did good at that. I performed atrociously at basically everything else – including American history, American what-happened-in-18XX-questions – but helped the team a lot in garnering one single point when I gave the title for “E.T.“. Arrrgh! If there had only been pop culture trivia in there, preferably minutiae about music…but alas, as most people in their 90s (and the person who designed that competition must have been) don’t like to live in THE CURRENT (I’m not bitter) and some teams that ended up with ONE POINT FROM THE MAXIMUM (OK, I’m bitter) WITHOUT HAVING CHEATED, ACCORDING TO THEMSELVES, we didn’t win. But still, I’m not a bad loser. They must have cheated. I would never. As I had/have no wits/knowledge/network connection to google everything out, I eavesdropped but that didn’t work out. I also tried blatantly asking people in the restroom, but that didn’t work out either. So I drank my Texan Pecan Porter and just had fun with my friends, which was absolutely lovely.

We went to Opa!, a Greek place, where we talked about love and life and poverty and did some insane hula-hooping. Watching Brian get up on a table and hula-hoop the hell out of me was brilliant. They had a guitar, some notes were played. I still smell like bonfire from a campfire that was on.

Leaving for home – Brian’s, that is – we had a real hoot. We went to a hamburger place, ordered some vegetarian burgers and were confronted by a man in his 60’s, by the name of Bobby B. I shan’t post his surname for obvious reasons, but he was wearing a cowboy hat and claimed to hail from New Orleans. Some of the things he started saying were really weird. Hang on, EVERYTHING he said was weird and beyond that. First, I heard him talking about how Russian agents were in London. Bobby B. managed to snare our poor Bobby and went on about that for a while, and then turned his attention to Garth Brooks, whom he said he’d met on the 15th at…some local karaoke place. To prove this, he pulled out a camera and showed Bobby and Brian a picture of the supposed Garth Brooks, in real life a man about 50-60 years old, on the picture though, looking completely different, being late-20s-early-30s of age. And look! Bobby B. could even produce a cowboy hat that Garth had signed! Letmegetthatforyououttamacaar. Thank God. That means he has a car and wouldn’t try to get into Brian’s. And so, he produced a hat that said “To Bobby B, don’t stop dancin’!” while saying that the signature on the hat looked nothing like Garth’s signature on the site, but then again, that signature WAS on a straw hat, which must have distorted it some. And he added that Garth didn’t at all look like himself on the picture. But it was Garth, of course, said Bobby B.

Then home to Brian’s, watching “Wolf Creek” which I fell asleep to. Now time to get up and away.

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