Roadtrippin': Austin in a Few Quick Pictures

This weekend I took my first visit to the lovely city of Austin, Texas, before and during which I was liberally advised to keep it "weird". Sure, dudes. I was there to sling some words in the SUNCHILD reading series, put on by the editors of the online journal smoking glue gun and featuring their contributors (shameless plug: check out my work there in volume 4). Spoiler alert? It was awesome; think the literal, breath-was-stolen, sense of the word.

Besides that, I got the chance to hop through a handful of the many, many bars and foodstops the city has to offer. I don't think I've ever appreciated so many tastes (and calories) in a single weekend. Here are just a few moments I had the presence of mind to snap.


Our first stop when we rolled in on Thursday afternoon was The Jackalope. Decent happy hour specials, but I decided to order off their cocktail menu to start celebrating National Tequila Day with a blend of tequila, blackberry liqueur, and ginger beer. Not too shabby.

Bottoms up!

                                 

The Jackalope lives on Austin's "Dirty Sixth" Street, a stretch clustered with bars featuring live music and as many drinks as they can make you muster. I heard three separate people on the trip refer to it as "Austin's Bourbon Stree," but I really can't bring myself to endorse the comparison. I mean, you can't so much as bring open containers onto the sidewalks, and that is more or less a dealbreaker on that one.

An array of interesting decor was also featured in the bar, forefronted by a giant saddled jackalope sculpture. The rules to ride included "must have a drink in hand" and "no male nudity." So, that. Also displayed prominently were many portrayals of barebreasted women, so I'm guessing the rules on female nudity may be a bit more lax?

Thursday night's festivities were headlined by seeing a !!! show. Yes, it's a band, it's pronounced "CHK CHK CHK" or something similar. In any case, it was a dancing good time, though possibly most sweltering room I have ever been in. The lead singer, who maintained an impressive exuberance in his shameless dance moves, emitted clouds of vaporized sweat every time he clapped his hands. I wish I had had a glow stick or two, but I was happy to hold onto enough oxygen to make it through the act.

It would have been a shame to miss out on some real Texas barbecue. We rustled some up at a strange little stop called Rudy's, which provided unparalleled meat-based customer service in the form of samples given to first-timers. Everyone should make such an informed decision when choosing their smoked meats. Half a pound of tasty turkey and another half of extra-moist (yes!) brisket was carved out for us, along with some unexpectedly delicious creamed corn and potato salad. We were given half a loaf of Bunny read in our bag for the inevitable sandwiches and referred to a sauce dispenser that was enough to meet even my excessive condiment needs.

If you have the balls to light that sign up, you have some meat you can stand behind.

Finally.

 Friday evening drinks were at a Hole in the Wall bar. Literally. This one had an unnerving amount of Texas-themed decor, but I was informed that was usual in those parts.

It also housed an Asian fusion restaurant East Side King in the back patio. I partook of the Tori Meshi, which combined their specialty Thai Chicken Karaage with the delicious Liberty Rice. No regrets here, except not asking for more of their special sauce.

Saturday brought a dip in the perpetually cool waters of Barton Springs.

Not pictured: the imminent crackdown of The Man on the popular free swimming hole

I am normally not a very big fan of Tex-Mex, but I couldn't not try it while I was around. This enchilada plate from Wahoo's proved to be a solid lunch, but it was their frozen margaritas that really packed the kick.

Something about this town and riding large rabbit-shaped objects, I dunno.

If you let me into one of these junk shops, it's a hard job to get me out. We spent the better part of an hour just taking a quick tour through this one. Its niches were admirably curated by color. And sometimes brass unicorns, for which I have a fondness surpassed only by my love of brass dinosaurs, apparently.

WHERE WERE YOU WHEN I WAS NEW?!

On thing I did not do nearly enough in Austin: food trucks. They're parked in these round ups every so often, just to give me way too many delicious options. The phrase "life is hard" was uttered more than once on these occasions.

The punctuation lets you know they're serious. I should have paid better attention.

Zero regret about this one, though. Gourdough's menu presented some tough contenders, but the Cherry Bombs won out in the end. And, well, damn. Glazed doughnut holes topped with cherry, cinnamon, sugar, and cake mix. This presented one of these moments, those rare opportunities in life that arise sometimes by the forkful, immersing you in only the oblivion of bliss, unmarred by thoughts of your impending diabetes.

The paper may or may not have been consumed as well.

 Sunday closed out the weekend with a visit to the fantastic independent Malvern Books. My friend, one of the hosts of the reading, is in charge of ordering their poetry section, and I must say he does a damn fine job. I've never seen a better collection of small presses and contemporary voices in person. Er, paper. I had to limit myself to only a couple so I could hang onto enough money to eat for the rest of the month.

Speaking of eating. What would a Sunday be without brunch? I fell upon this one at the charming cafe Cenote, where the Eggs Benedict came highly recommended. The chipotle hollandaise may have changed my life, and those hashbrowns were a damn fine sidekick.

It was real, Austin. Thanks for everything. If you could just do something about that relentlessly blazing sun and open container laws, I'd be happy to catch you again sooner rather than later.

Literary Dalliances with the New Orleans Library

The rain slaps softly against my window. The grayness of the light tends to make everything seem a little softer, a little slower. But I can still hear the sluice of traffic cutting through puddles on rain-slick streets. They have places to go, maybe even things to get done.

That’s the thing about New Orleans. There is always somewhere to go, some friends to meet, some beat to dance to. Maybe even some work to get done. If you’re not careful, it can get awful hard just to squirrel away a little time to yourself, to get back inside your own head.

What I’m really talking about here, at least for me, is curling up with a good book. My reading time has recently dropped off precipitously, and that tends to make me feel off-kilter.

So rather than send my life into a downward spiral caused by a dangerous deficiency of literature, I did the only reasonable thing a new resident with a craving for words and an appreciation for the smell of old books could do.

I got my New Orleans library card!

The closest branch to me is the Milton H. LatterBranch, a gorgeous old converted mansion with lovely grounds to boot. It’s one of the smaller branches, so the selection isn’t the best, but they have a lovely cluster of reading rooms and nooks inside and out. Plenty of spaces to tuck yourself away for a while.

                                   

I’m trying to make amends for my shameful tracklist with classics and notables, so I picked up some James Joyce, Virginia Woolf, and Joyce Carol Oates.

                                 

Laying the books out like that, I appreciated the complement of the symmetrical Joyces, and only wished that a copy of Orlando would have been available to make a really nice gender spectrum there.

Anyway, I’m looking forward to eating my way through the vast literary collections I have access to. This is only the first course.

I leave you with Mrs. Dalloway, reflecting on those glorious drops of time we should savor, but so rarely do:

 Then, for that moment, she had seen an illumination; a match burning in a crocus; an inner meaning almost expressed. But the close withdrew; the hard softened. It was over – the moment. Against such moments (with women too) there contrasted (as she laid her hat down) the bed and Baron Marbot and the candle half-burnt. 

Bonus Blog for Bloomsday!

But I would be incredibly remiss if I did not take a moment to wish into the world a Happy Bloomsday!

The events of the delightfully mind-cramping Ulysses take place on the 16th of June 1904, and fans of James Joyce have appropriately staked out this date to celebrate the author's life and work with readings, pub-crawls, parties and the like.

Here in New Orleans, the Bloomsday celebration is tonight at the Irish House. All attendees are invited to read at their pleasure. Some of my fellow denizens of the New Orleans Poetry Brothel will be performing Molly's erotic soliloquy from Ulysses, and it's sure to be a doozy. Nola.com did a short and sweet pre-write-up here if you're interested in more information.

I leave you with the closing lines of Ulysses. Say yes to the world.

I was a Flower of the mountain yes when I put the rose in my hair like the Andalusian girls used or shall I wear a red yes and how he kissed me under the Moorish wall and I thought well as well him as another… then he asked me would I yes to say yes my mountain flower and first I put my arms around him yes and drew him down to me so he could feel my breasts all perfume yes and his heart was going like mad and yes I said yes I will Yes.