Move Over, Beethoven

I know it may sound like I'm bragging, but I'm pretty convinced Bam Bam is a prodigy. Whether he'll make David Beckham look like a ballerina or make Bob Dylan look like a suburban emo only time will tell, but right now, at the ripe old age of almost 2, he masters everything he touches. 

It's kind of freaky to watch, but then I remember he does have my DNA, and it all makes a little more sense. 

Dulywed: What's Beneath All Those Vows (A Series)

"Hmmm, lunch... lunch... what should I pack for lunch? Oh, I know, there's half a lasagna left from last night. I'll grab a bit of that."

[opens refrigerator; doesn't see lasagna anywhere; spots empty container picked apart by vulture man on counter top; eyes fall out of head in disbelief that a single human being can ingest that much lasagna as a midnight snack]

"Or not."

[heads off to work with the leftover salad that was completely untouched during the husband binge-fest]

I saw a perverted old woman... At Last

I love the Hollywood Bowl and I love Etta James, so when Etta decided to perform at the Bowl last week, it was basically the universe telling me to go, love, and smoosh it all together into a fun patty.

Paolo Nutini opened up the night, and if he wasn't so sweaty I'd be writing a marriage proposal right now. His songs were purely happy, and he kind of reminded me of the Beatles, only Scottish, a little drunk, and a little nerdier. As he rotated off the stage, Solomon Burke rotated on. The man showed up sitting on a throne big enough to hold an elephant and did not stand up one single time... because he was the size of an elephant. His voice was Barry White sultry though, so the love amped up so much that Mr. T had to remind me that he was the husband and as such, he should be putting his arm around me and secretly getting to second base.

Sometimes I forget.

Things were getting all lovey dovey touchy feely when Madam Blues took the stage. Since she's pushing 70 years old, she sort of hobbled out and immediately sat down on her hip replacement friendly stool. We also settled in to listen to her tell us how it is and were then treated to some of the creepiest old lady porn I've seen in... well... my whole life.

For some reason, possibly because she is crazy, she came out and rubbed herself. Her lower self. And then her upper self. And then she flicked her tongue around the microphone as if to say, "Hey there young boys, there's nothing but magic under these dentures."

It was so bizarre that whenever she made an advance on herself, the entire Bowl responded with gasps of horror and bursts of laughter. I couldn't look away because I could barely believe it was really happening.

Thanks to my FanciPhone, I was able to capture the moment in this triptych I call "Please. God. No." And now, you too, can experience Etta at last.

Things to Do in Austin when You're Drunk (part 2 of a series)

South Congress is a pretty notorious part of Austin, and after you've gorged yourself on Guero's, South Congress becomes a nice little stretch of asphalt that will aid in your digestion.

The strip has a lot of kitchy shops and restaurants, but unfortunately, it doesn't have a lot of trees. You're basically the egg frying on the sidewalk in August unless you learn how to hug the wall like Sarah does.
We wandered into vintage and antique shops with dusty old photos of people who are way past dead but who looked like they had a really nice life. I love old black and white snapshots of people. If it wouldn't be so incredibly weird, I'd like to make a family album of the pictures I really like and pretend that those are my ancestors and make up stories about them. Maybe in my secret life I will do that, but for now I'll let Shan be the primary weirdo in our clan.

Among the chandeliers, old farm equipment, feathered hats, tiny shoes, dishes and word cards that defined the four of us as Slow, Creak, Nerve and Prize, Kristin and I found a child's memory box. I had never seen one of those before. Since it's likely you haven't either, let me explain.

Apparently in the olden days, affluent parents liked to preserve their child's youth by collecting DNA samples and storing them in a velvet lined box. A lock of brown hair snaked around five little brown teeth in this particular box... and it was nasty. Interesting and mysterious, but nasty.

If I ever do become a parent, I must resist my pack rat tendencies and NOT save body pieces shed by my child. And if I simply have to keep these souvenirs, I must resist the temptation to put it all in a fancy box to make it seem special and not gross.

Since skin cancer was starting to materialize on Sarah's delicate skin, we called an end to our casual browsing and took refuge at a Doc's Motor Works Bar & Grill. Doc's was like a BW3s, only automotive. The beers were cold, brewed locally and called Fireman's #4. Just the way we like 'em.

Things to Do in Austin when You're Drunk (a series)

How Ruble, Sarah, Kristin and I managed to find the most incredible hangouts in Austin is either a testament to our abilities to sniff out good times or a clear indicator that Austin qualifies as one of the best cities in the United States.

Breathe now, because that sentence was a doozy.

It took us almost a year to the day for us far-flung friends to make it to the same geography, but it was worth the wait. We were barely off the plane an hour and we were sipping margaritas and eating queso at Guero's. A guy on the plane next to Kristin said he was going there as soon as he got out of the airport, so if he was that devoted, it must be a place worth devotion. Yeah, it was.
I was surprised to see how vegetarian friendly Austin actually was. I expected it to be like Dallas only worse, because Austin is known for its barbecue. Instead, I found veggie versions of practically everything. Which I'm sure I would have enjoyed if I wasn't already about to explode from all the queso I drank.

So, add Austin to your list, and at the top, write in Guero's. Also at the top, write "Hot as Hell... DO NOT bring your favorite hoodie."

I needed this today.

Ahh, the Torches of Freedom

Shannon, as we're pulling into Lake Charles for the first time: "Look at all the pollution. They're just burning it right into the air."

Mom, trying to look on the bright side: "Those are the Torches of Freedom, girls."

Shannon, after a long pause and five more sightings of burning pollution tubes: "Why are there so many of them?"

The Lake Charles Skyline

Annie's

I think we were on Common Street. I never did learn my way around since Lake Charles has grown so much since the last time I was there. It actually has several Starbucks now.

The place looked like a roadside shack, where genuine drinkers go to ease the pain, and as we past it I said, "We've got to go there."

Liz knows all about Annie's. Apparently she stayed there one night easing her pain and had Amy pick her up -- from the bar -- the next morning to catch a flight to Kentucky. That's what Annie's does. It sucks you in and gives you a place to wallow.

I'd left my ID in my suitcase with my boarding pass, so getting a beer wasn't as breezy as I thought it was going to be. The bartender refused to serve me even after I explained the ID traveling 30 years old story, when a woman three stools over asked me where I was visiting from. I told her California, Los Angeles, and that when we'd drove by earlier I'd told Liz we had to stop here and get a beer. The woman, Bonnie, called me over to "get a look" at me, had me take off my glasses, and okayed me for a beer. Since she was the owner, the bartender reluctantly complied, but not before a few cuss words were thrown around the room.

The bartender was a bitch. But Bonnie was awesome.

She'd been running Annie's for 26 years and had been living in Lake Charles for 40. As she explained, she was a "coon ass by injection." She'd named the bar for her grandmother, who used to go into bars in the days when women would cross the street to avoid walking in front of them. Bonnie called her a feminist. I understood.

Liz said I had to see the bathroom before we left, so I made my way to the back and, after a confrontation with a beetle the size of King Kong, went into the ladies room. It reminded me of my grandma's basement, where all the retired furniture and velvet paintings went to live. Delightfully tacky, yet refined, if you will.

We had to leave to meet up with Amy, but Bonnie told us to stop by on Saturday night for karaoke. She said things really get rolling at around 2:30... a.m. Good to know for the next time I visit Lake Charles.

Fast forward 18 years

One weekend when we were in the 7th grade, Liz, Amy and I decided to go to Wal-mart to get our picture taken. I borrowed a blue shirt with an over-sized collar from Amy, and the three of us went to the photo department of Louisiana's finest department store.

I forgot all about that afternoon until 2001, when my poor planning and geographical ignorance made me, Liz, Amy & I drive all over Louisiana and Texas in search of a good time. At a pit stop at Liz's house, there on the fridge, the past converged with the present.

She had three copies of the photo, so I stole a tiny one and added it to my stash in Kentucky. She forgives me for things like that.

Last weekend at Amy's wedding, where I was known as the one who got Amy into a fist fight at an amusement park with the unforgettable and foreshadowing statement "What? You're going to fight me over a place in line?!," the photo once again made an appearance. This time as a 5" by 7" framed enlargement.

Amy's mom, Ms. Bunny, had found it recently and decided to get a copy for me and Liz to commemorate Amy's wedding. So, to celebrate 18 years together, through fist fights and break ups and births and hurricanes and weddings, we decided to update the photo, with a photo featuring the photo. Photo.
I just feel lucky to have kept such good friends for almost 20 years (in Heather's case, though, it's been 20 years and counting). And I'm glad I've sort of learned to dress myself in that time.