Screw you
“I got on my cowboy boots, jeans
And Hawaiian shirt, mirrored sunglasses
And a mobile phone
I guess I look like some Port Aransas
Dope dealer that’s out on bail
Just trying to get home”
(opening lyrics to Ray Wylie’s final cut, latest album)
I took one look out the trailer’s window Friday morning, thought about how cold it would in be airplanes and airports, and pulled on jeans and boots for the firs time, for the first time in a while.
Predawn airport cab ride: “Look, I’m a conservative Republican but Rick Perry has his eyes on Washington, and he doesn’t care who he steps on to get there from here. And Dewhurst?”
Lively political discussion with the driver. We both mourned the passing of Johnny Cash.
I’d forgotten, but Southwest provides free doughnuts, if you arrive early enough. I did. I bit into the delicious, sugary concoction, and something tickled my memory, I queried the counter agent, “These are Roundrock Doughnuts?”
Sure enough.
It was sunny and nice everywhere but Austin. I left wearing boots and jeans, dressed, I thought appropriately.
The Rocky Mountain cordillera, visible in the morning light – New Mexico awakening.
Canyon lands, Arizona, state since 1912?
Popping through AZ always reminds me, I was in school here, what? A decade ago? From the air, all I can make out is the stadium. The old college, just west of downtown, that campus is visible for a moment. Then gone. The University east of the airport, there too.
The moon is one full sign apart from full. Harvest.
“Is Mercury Retrograde? When it is, all I do is give them a little psychological breast milk.”
It was an “astrologically aware” passenger, reading magazine called This month in practical psychiatry or some similar title.
“Had to be in person,” I was assured.
“You’ll need two kinds of ID.” I whipped out my Texas Drivers License and my fishing permit. And a minister card. And an old press pass. Finally, I showed my passport. What was so funny, is that this document has been notarized and signed, three-four times now. It’s crisscrossed the country twice. More than me, even.
Sister was running late. I spent almost fifteen minutes curbside at OAK. Then we dashed downtown, dashed through Peets, dashed to our appointed meeting, dashed back to her place, dashed to Peet’s again, dashed off and scarfed a quick burger, and then dashed off to the airport. In Gemini fashion, she was balancing me, the appointment, our business, her business, one or two of her performers being, well, performers, and me. Plus Sister had to make sure I had some Peet’s chocolate-covered espresso beans for Ma Wetzel. In and out in under three hours. For a ten-minute meeting.
“A three hour tour.”
I got a burger and then, Sister offered to split the airfare with me. “Free ticket,” I reminded her, “frequent flyer miles.”
“So ‘free’ means I don’t owe you a thing? Right?”
Wetzel logic.
“No, dear Sister, you owe me a trip to Texas.”
We were in Peet’s, which I happen to think is the finest coffee in the world, and we wanted to get a shot together, proof that I was there.
It didn’t come out quite right, I think the Taurus guy taking the picture was a little shaky, too much coffee? And this one shot, with a “look” on my face like some one just made a bad smell? I can’t recall, but she’s smiling and I’m looking disgusted. I wonder who just….
