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.