GLIB ADVENTURES OF BOOZY STUPOR IN THE TEXAS HEAT
(how far were we from Lubbock?)
The following Adventures are purely the product of the Author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. There is no such place as S.X.S.W. Land. The United States of Austin does not exist. Duh! Everybody knows that. The cast of characters? Such extroverted self-serving eccentrics are only possible in make believe. Any resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental.
Brought To You By:
Miller Lite, CHEVROLET, Aol., David Koresh, IFC ALWAYS ON. SLIGHTLY OFF., Brisk, pepsi MAX zero calories, Charles Whitman, freecreditscore.com Get the Score., MONSTER ENERGY, THE AUSTIN CHRONICLE, and D. Sparkxxx
happy to oblige!
ADVENTURES IN SIGHTSEEING
Shit man, I was on vacation! All the way down to S.X.S.W. Land in the United States of Austin. What the hell? Let’s see some sights! Why not.
Making the drive up to Waco Texas Cousin P. and I listened to the album Capitol Punishment by the ‘Brooklyn based band’ Kung Fu Crimewave ( LINK ). Taking the turn down a gravel road, the G.P.S. had trouble locating the address. It greatly upset Cousin P.
“Well Cousin P.,” I said, “The ravaged remains of David Koresh’s Mount Carmel Center ( LINK ) (LINK) isn’t exactly Disneyland. It’s not programmed into the Garmen as a Waco attraction.”
“But it does exist,” P. countered. “You can’t deny that it does exist in a fixed location.”
I gotta admit that he had me there. I couldn’t deny it.
We did find the address and drove the rented Toyota Corolla a few hundred yards down to the Branch Davidian Church, a modest white building whose construction was funded by confounding Austinite Alex Jones. On the wall by the door were 2 bins. One read ‘DONATIONS’ and another read ‘PAMPHLETS’. I put a dollar in the donation bin and took a pamphlet from the pamphlet bin. It was poorly Xeroxed, and included a schematic of the Mount Carmel Center layout as well as a gas station coupon.
The pamphlet’s content was a concise rundown of the tragedy that transpired between February 28th and April 19th 1993; it included photos of the Bureau of Alcohol Tobacco and Firearms agents, brandishing rifles and dressed to the 9s in frighteningly martial SWAT gear. The standoff came to it’s cathartic climax, the pamphlet informed me, when “the entire complex and most of its residents were burned up, including 76 Branch Davidians (19 men, 34 women, and 23 children – of which two were babies who were still in their mothers’ wombs, spontaneously birthed into the fire.)”
Some interesting bible passages quoted in the “WACO” pamphlet: Zeek 28, “the Lord says to this man: “Because thou hast said ‘I have the mind of God, I sit in the seat of God and I am God,” I the Lord will send strangers, the terrible of the nations to bring you down with the sword.” Then Zeek’s quoted again, “Those who are not sighing and crying for the abominations done by the church, will be utterly slaughtered, men, women, maids, and their little children by those that have the slaughtering weapons in their hands (the Delta Force).” Then there was some more shit about our wrathful god judging nations and denominations and Texans.
The pitted foundations of the Mount Carmel Center basement and swimming pool were a few yards away, filled with stagnant water and crushed soda cans. There were turtles living there now. We found a few charred pieces of wood. A rusted and crumpled school bus stuck up from the dirt. The concrete shells of underground passageways were partially exposed. At the corner of the property was a trailer with its back doors removed. The interior was filled with yellowed and water-stained Branch Davidian memos and teaching aides dating back to the 1950s. The Texas sky was cloudless. From time to time a cool breeze kicked up. Cousin P. ran around and shot some black and white footage with his Super 8 camera. A man on the adjoining property cut tree limbs with a chainsaw.
Next stop on the Waco sightseeing itinerary was a visit with a former Mount Carmel Center resident who had survived the standoff. En route I lectured at Cousin P. on Doyle’s Sherlock Holmes and Frost and Lynch’s Dale Cooper. P. got rather touchy and irritable, because apparently in my lecturing, I spoiled the 2 great Detectives’ more memorable exploits.
The former resident of the Mount Carmel Center now resided a few miles away in a handsome blue house with a well kept lawn. Out of respect for his privacy (and also because I never quite caught his name) he will not be named. The Gentleman met us in the front yard and was kind enough to chit-chat for a while about his experiences. The sun was beginning to go down. Children rode bicycles and kicked balls down the street. The Gentleman was quite genial, and his rambling recollections didn’t require much coaxing. A short fellow, but he looked damned good for his 70-something years of age. He spoke of David Koresh as one would of a big brother or best friend. After the Branch Davidian/ATF showdown, The Gentleman had spent a year in prison. He was diplomatic to the point of neutrality in his musings. Never actually using the word “circus”, as much was implied in his talk of the resulting trial. Anecdotes of courtroom disputes over whether the Mount Carmel Center’s doors were wood or steel. Why the hell were those tanks ramming the exterior walls? Something about the ATF firing into the 2nd floor and the women and children were kept on the 2nd floor, and the Mount Carmel Center didn’t have enough lifeboats, so the 3rd class passengers were locked down in steerage. The ATF could’ve served Koresh his arrest warrant while he went for his morning jog, or drove to pick up eggs and milk and bread in his bitchin’ Camero. The gentleman told of an ATF informant who’d begun attending Branch Davidian bible studies in the weeks leading to the standoff. By all accounts the ATF informant was well liked by the Branch Davidians, and seemed to be getting a lot out of the bible studies. Cousin P. asked The Gentleman about some place called “Ruby Ridge” then used the term “dress rehearsal” in relating it to “Waco”. The Gentleman didn’t have much to say on the matter.
Cousin P., you big dummy, obviously ignorant to the craft of stage acting. You gotta work out the blocking before you have the dress rehearsal.
Over the years The Gentleman had been interviewed numerous times for hours on end by various members of the press, all of them with some angle or slant already in mind. Normally the reporters were pretty nice though, he was happy to say. He couldn’t talk much longer. He’d put a roast in the oven and it was probably almost done. He worked at a post office and was overdo for some vacation.
For additional reading, the “WACO” pamphlet suggests the following websites: www.the2branches.org www.branch-davidianhistory.net They also accept donations sent to the following address: The BRANCH The LORD Our Righteousness
1781 Double EE Ranch Rd, Waco, TX 76705
I stopped to gas up the rented Toyota Corolla. Me n’ Cousin P., already conspicuous enough in sun-beat Waco Texas, but to make matters worse I wasn’t paying attention at the pump and the gas tank overflowed. A passing resident chided me for it in Spanish. Cousin P. was afraid the rented Toyota Corolla would blow up, and advised me not to light any cigarettes.
Charles Whitman ( LINK ) was not a born Texan, but a Floridian transplanted to Texas. The University of Texas campus and bell tower were fortunate enough to provide a backdrop for Good Ol’ Chuck when he climbed to the top of the bell tower, and utilizing skills he’d acquired in the Marine Corps, gunned down and sniped off the bright-eyed bushy-tailed UT co-eds diddling about in the area below. Charles Whitman is alluded to in the one movie about that one war in that one scene where a Marine Drill Sergeant compares him to another infamous Texas sniper known for sending an immaculate bullet through a pristine President. Since me n’ Cousin P. had such a terrific time in Waco, it was only natural to visit another site of senseless murder. Yeah, yeah, yeah, Dave and Chuck and whatever, but this much I do know, Americans sure as hell do love their guns.
The bell tower at the University of Texas was wonderfully phallic and the imposingly colligate surrounding fortress of lecture halls had the boring utilitarianisms that symbolize the upper echelons of money and sex and power we like to associate with American higher education. We parked a few blocks over by a Jack n’ the Box. Cousin P. was anxious to get some footage of the bell tower and surrounding areas involved in Mr. Whitman’s 1966 turkey shoot. Only this time P. filmed in color. Maybe he could perhaps edit it together with his black and white footage from Waco, for some kind of, like, I dunno . . . Juxtaposition?
There was a monument to the clueless young Texans that gave their lives in “THE WORLD WAR!” There was a statue of a muscular young man wearing a loin cloth and an army helmet. “Which world war?” I asked the statue. “There were 2 of’em you know.” The statue didn’t have much to say on the matter. Cousin P. thought it looked pretty.
And a memorial for the folks picked off by Charles Whitman? They got a rock. They got a rock with a plaque in it, set in a grassy lot wedged between a greenhouse and curbside parking. There was a turtle pond too. A boy threw rocks at the turtles. The bell tower was across the street. At an intersection while walking back to the car there were several birds smashed to feather pancakes in the road. P. shot some Super 8 color footage of those too. An autopsy of Charles Whitman revealed a swelling brain tumor had been pressing against the murderous rampage gland in his right frontal lobe. P. drew a picture of Charles Whitman ( LINK ) There’s a statue of the first and last Confederate President Jefferson Davis in front of the United States of Austin’s capitol building. Anyway, here’s these lyrics by ‘Brooklyn based band Kung Fu Crimewave’
“We tried to warn them, they didn’t want to hear it
They said we won’t be bullied by the spirits
But the people are just trying to make the most
Now the children ride in circles with the ghosts, with the ghosts
They built a merry-go-round on the burial ground, They built a merry-go-round on the burial ground, They built a merry-go-round on the burial ground, They built a merry-go-round on the burial ground, They built a merry-go-round on the burial ground, They built a merry-go-round on the burial ground, They built a merry-go-round on the burial ground, They built a merry-go-round on the burial ground.”
ADVENTURES IN FILM SCREENINGS
And now switching gears . . . And now on a lighter note. If the director was present, it was customary they’d indulge the audience in a Q n’ A session after a film screening. During such sessions I was compelled to raise my hand and ask, “Yes, what’s next for Team Zissou?”
Of course the whole point of our adventures was to accompany P., who had directed a music video and co-directed another music video that were playing alongside 21 other music videos as part of an S.X.S.W. Land film event called ‘Music Videos’. I was sent to Texas in an official capacity, working for my cousin as his valet driver, handmaiden, manager, life coach, whipping boy, financial advisor, court jester, accountant, babysitter, travel agent, bar tender, and publicist. Additionally I provided my services as a snarky but unobtrusive outlet for his struggling ‘Brooklyn based’ trust fund brat neuroticisms. Last, but certainly not least, I played the humble role as P.’s foil. In return sometimes he bought me beer. Sometimes he bought me coffee. Cousin P. also proved to be quite skilled at navigating and operating the rental car’s radio, air conditioning, and automatic door locks. P. had designed and printed out business cards for the whole adventure, and I gotta admit, he whipped up some pretty bad-ass business cards.
Waiting in line once for a film screening, I informed him, “There’s a little movie called Citizen Cane.” Then I went on to ask him, “Ever heard of it?”
To which he responded, “Yes. Of course I’ve heard of it.” And from this response, I could tell Cousin P. wasn’t diggin’ what I was laying down.
P. directed one music video for a young ‘Brooklyn based singer/songwriter’ named Tobias Greatshank ( LINK ). It was track #5 entitled ‘Untitled 5’ from the album entitled ‘Untitled’. Working with newsreel footage of the Hindenburg, P. animated the doomed zepplin as a floating smiling and singing guy that joined in with Mr. Greatshank on the choruses: “Jerk her boyfriend off until she cries.” ( LINK ).
The other video he co-directed with colleague Jackie C was for a young musicians who goes by the name Us Grrrrlzz. ( LINK ). A haunting ditty of drums and overdubbed voices, animated with cutouts from old magazine advertisements ( LINK )
As for the other music videos filling out the program? They were pretty good. It’s too bad the Music Video channel doesn’t play music videos anymore. But the internet sure as hell does. Check’em out: ( LINKS )
In all honesty, aside from being a great admirer of Jim Henson, P. was also an accomplished puppeteer and puppet maker ( LINK ) in his own right at the tender age of grade school. His mommy threw away all his puppets while he was at summer camp. It was no surprise P. suggested we attend the screening of ‘Seeing St. Elmo’ ( LINK ) A documentary chronicling the rise of Kiev Klash, the Baltimore boy dun good in a puppeteering career. Influenced by Sesame Street and Captain Kangaroo, Mr. Klash made his own puppets, performing at birthday parties and community events, then on local television, and then from there onto the Henson muppet ensemble where Kiev Klash went on to voice and operate St. Elmo, the loveable red little guy who often refers to himself in 3rd person. Puppeteers are an odd type though. I venture to say obsessive, perhaps suffering some socially acceptable form of split personalities. Kind of like actors in that regard. Actually, actors, speaking of, I met one.
The next screening was for a movie named after a color commonly associated with grass and leaves, and is also used as an adjective for inexperienced young people. (LINK ) Described by the Pennsylvanian writer/director/actor ( LINK ) as a story of jealousy, the movie concerned some snot-nosed lovers relocated from cosmopolitan New York to rural Pennsylvania. Not a love triangle exactly, but maybe the story of triangular jealousy when the lovers make friends with a local gal. Relationships are tested and strained and all that as the threesome flit about through fields and swimming holes and flea markets and ice cream stands. I won’t spoil the ending, but I will say it involves oral sex with an eerie soundtrack.
The breakout starlet featured in the film was Cousin P.’s friend. I felt compelled to address her as Anna even though I knew her name wasn’t Anna. ( LINK ) He introduced us. I was star-struck and bashful. Call me old fashion or immature, but I had just seen the breakout startlet on the big screen scantily clad or not clad at all, acting out scenes rather sexual in content. I congratulated her. She talked to P. I looked down at my shoes.
It was like I WAS REALLY IN A CAVE IN FRANCE STARING AT THE OLDEST CAVE PAINTINGS KNOW TO MAN! ( LINK ) Only the lighting was poor and the picture was kindah hazy, but it WAS IN 3D! Wonderous Cave of Our Ancestor’s Forgotten Dreams was a bit of a departure for the flim maker’s film maker Vernor Hedgehog. ( LINK ) French scientists are kindah like scientist poets, or poetic scientists, or scientist slackers. One anthropologist used to be a circus performer. Another spelunker said, “Let us be silent and listen to the cave, and maybe . . . We will hear our own hearts beating.” People aren’t allowed to go in the cave anymore because their breath caused mold to grow on the oldest cave paintings yet known to man. Vernor Hedgehog gave a final thought about blind radioactive albino alligators bred in a nearby greenhouse.
Joey Swampberger ( LINK ) said he had a real hard time of making his movie Aluminum Bullets ( LINK ) because he wasn’t getting along with Noah Baumbach, so Joey had to sleep in a fleabag motel and water sprayed on him and someone shushed him through the walls. Vaguely a horror movie because the story concerned a director trying to make a horror movie; as alluded to in the title, also vaguely a werewolf movie because some werewolf masks were included in the costuming. P. loved it and said it inspired him to write, direct, and act in his own movie, then talk about it at director Q n’ A’s after the film screenings. Aluminum Bullets also included the breakout young starlet I felt compelled to call Anna, even though I knew Anna wasn’t her real name. She sure was a busy willowy girl. Included in the movie were clips of Dave-Oh Folice Wallster talking about how he wanted to write a book because he thought it would make him happy, then he did write a book and the book got a lot of attention, but it didn’t make him happy. The sentiment was repeated later on when Joey Swampberger talked about he wanted to make movies to make him happy or to connect with people or something like that. The breakout starlet brought the house down in the final scene. I won’t spoil the ending, but I will say she applies makeup and gets emotional. During the Q n’ A one audience member didn’t ask a question, but instead suggested we all give her a round of applause for such a breakout performance. Joey Swampberger was good enough to take one of my questions. “Yes,” I asked. “What’s next for Team Zissou?” The breakout starlet was wearing a denim jacket with a corduroy collar.
Afterwards ambling down a side street, we saw her trying to hail a cab for her mother. She introduced me to her mother. I shook her mother’s hand. Her mother was from New Jersey. The breakout starlet asked if Cousin P. had any plans for the evening, because she was going out for drinks with some friends and wondered if we might like to come along.
“Oh boy,” he said, “probably not. It’s been a long day. I left my debit card at a restaurant. We need to pick it up before they close. I think after that we’re just going to turn in for the night.”
WHAT THE FUCK COUSIN P?! ARE YOU A FUCKING IDIOT?! THIS NUANCED AND WILLOWY YOUNG ACTRESS, THE TOAST OF THE GOD-DAMN TOWN, THE BELLE OF THE GOD-DAMN BALL DOWN HERE IN S.X.S.W. LAND JUST INVITED US OUT AND THAT’S THE BEST RESPONSE YOU CAN COME UP WITH?! ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME?!
She said goodnight and got in a cab with her mother.
“C’mon bud,” I said to Cousin P. “Let’s get to Uncle Billy’s barbeque and get your debit card before they close.”
The following evening as the film screening portion of our adventures neared its end, our story took a dramatic turn. P. and I engaged in a hateful discourse that rocked our family bond to its very foundation. Our once solid cousinly alliance was irrevocably weakened. Cruel things were said. Arms were wildly thrown about in angry gestures. Eyes were narrowed into nasty looks. ‘Fuck-you’s’ and ‘No-fuck-you’s’ and ‘No-no-no-fuck-you-asshole’s’ were volleyed. Pedestrians quickened their pace past our sidewalk dispute. P.’s dress shoes were pinching his toes and digging into the back of his heels, raising the stakes, and making our argument all the more volatile. And also my lips were chapped and I had a little bit of a headache too.
I don’t know why the hell he threw such a hissy-fit-temper-tantrum. We went to the film awards to see if P.’s or Jackie C’s music videos won an award. They didn’t. Thankfully it was announced early in the ceremony so we didn’t have to sit through a bunch of awards for shit that didn’t directly pertain to us, thus we didn’t care about. Going on to announce the next winner for animated shorts, Cousin P and I left, cutting past 2 occupied seats before we hit the aisle and out the exits.
Outside the convention center it had gotten dark and the evening was balmy and breezy. For reasons momentarily obscured to me, P. got very upset. So upset in fact, that he balled his left hand into a fist and began repeatedly beating himself on the forehead.
I asked him, “What the hell’s your problem?”
To which he responded in great detail, “Oh jeez! Oh boy! I’m so embarrassed. We cut past those people when they announced an award. We ruined somebody’s special moment. I’m so embarrassed. I hate it when I get embarrassed. Everybody watched us walk out and we ruined somebody’s special moment.” He continued to beat himself on his forehead with his fist. “I have the worst timing. I’m so embarrassed. Why hadn’t we left sooner? Before they announced the next award? This is so embarrassing. Sweet vengeful lord in heaven, why must you curse me so? Why, oh why must I shoulder these terrible burdens of walking out of a theatre and ruining special moments and getting really embarrassed about it?” He continued to beat himself on his forehead with his left fist while he lay on his side on a bench. I lit a cigarette.
Hoping it had passed we proceeded to a bar to meet up with his colleague Jackie C.
He asked, “Do you ever get embarrassed?”
“You bet!”
“How do you cope?”
“I put my problems in perspective. Right now in the world starving people are getting raped and murdered, so my problems aren’t too bad.”
“Well that logic’s too broad. That doesn’t do me any good.”
We finally made it to the bar and the bar was called Beerland. Cousin P played some pinball. I drank a beer and smoked a cigarette. And just when I thought it was safe to enjoy myself again . . .
“When I’m upset I beat myself on the forehead.” Cousin P. said.
“Yeah. I saw a lady that did that on an episode of Intervention.”
“I just get really embarrassed and beat myself in the face. Intervention exploits people.”
“That’s fine,” I said, “whatever man. That’s all over now.”
“I know, but just because it’s not important to you, it’s still imporatnt to me. I’m dealing with very real and painful embarrassment.”
“Okay. I dig it. We’ve all got a cross to bear.”
“Now you’re just being sarcastic,” P. said.
“I dunno man. Let’s just relax. Let’s just move on. Let’s go out tonight and see some bands and have a good time. You know, things could always be worse.”
“But things could also be a lot better,” P. countered. “So therefore your logic is flawed.”
“OKAY! FINE!” I yelled.
“Ow. You yelled in my ear. Why did you yelled in my ear?”
I walked away. I walked out of the bar. Cousin P. followed.
Moving at a brisk pace through the cityscape, the interaction continued along the same lines for at least 537 blocks.
Cousin P called me a jerk.
I asked him to tell me something I didn’t already know.
He countered with, “Just because you acknowledge the fact that you’re a jerk doesn’t make you any less of a jerk, and doesn’t make it okay that you’re a jerk.”
“Whoa!” I threw my hands in the air. “Stop the presses. We’ve got a hot headline comin’ in over the wires here!”
“You’re a mother fucker,” Cousin P. said. “That means you fuck your mother and you fuck my aunt.”
“Oh yeah? Well you’re a son of a bitch,” I told my Cousin P. “That means your mom’s a bitch and my aunt’s a bitch.”
“YOU AUNT FUCKING NEPHEW OF A BITCH!” Cousin P. yelled.
He lunged at me.
I pulled the switchblade from my boot. But it was too late, as Cousin P. had already brandished his brass knuckles. I was able to get one clean cut across his cheek before he got a solid punch at my gut.
A triumphant chorus of strings and French horns swelled up from the streets.
ADVENTURES IN BANDS PLAYING
From here on out, beer to beer, urinal to urinal, hand stamp to hand stamp, several days passed in a single prolonged hiss of electric guitar feedback.
Down there for a while in S.X.S.W Land in the United States of Austin, entire street blocks closed off to allow for a free flow of pedestrian traffic. Night and day musicians of varying skill levels came from across the globe to play music in facilities with varying sound quality, until the whole of the great Southern Metropolis was a carnival.
Cheer Up Charlie’s was permeated with that same carnivalesque. It was a one room shack surrounded by a dirt pit and some platforms kindah like decking. The whole area had been fenced off with various food carts and beer stands.
The members of Tight Little Ship ( LINK ) were 2 short girls. One looked kindah Asian and the other looked kindah redheaded. Very quietly, rather soothingly, but with undeniable sweetness, the Tight Little Ship sailed through its night time set, gradually attracting shore side on lookers.
Some other guys (a guitar player and a drummer) Cousin P. knew from some other ‘Brooklyn based band’ needed us to give them a ride in our rented Toyota Corolla to the suburban house they were staying in. Driving the rock stars was very frustrating, as they didn’t know how to get to where they we going, and the drummer didn’t care because he had just met Melanie Diaz ( LINK ) and he kept talking about meeting her. Cousin P. kept turning up the air conditioning and cranking up the radio when a Dire Straits song came on and when a Bruce Springsteen song came on.
The next afternoon we went to watch the very same drummer and guitar player play in their band called Shmarwin Shmeez. ( LINK ) In between songs Shmarwin Shmeez did dance routines. The venue was called Emo’s. The stage was outside, with a bar on the opposite wall and some bleachers off to the side. The whole bit covered and enclosed with corrugated steel and fiberglass. The whole thing was very charming, but wading deeper into S.X.S.W. Adventures in Bands Playing, all the boozy Texas venues had that same kind of punk rock Metro Park vibe.
Shmarwin Shmeez had quite a fan base of teenage girls. 2 were standing beside me at the show. Something of my stature must have struck them as trustworthy, because they quite unexpectedly set their purses at my heels. After they show, they went to get the guitar player’s autograph. I went to tell him, “good show” and to reminisce about how I gave him a ride.
“Yeah man, cool, cool. We’re playing again. We’re playing a bunch of times.”
I asked the drummer if Melanie Diaz was going to any of their shows. “Naw man,” he said. “I toured with Stomp for 13 years. Melanie Diaz had to leave because she’s producing a movie.”
Onwards then to the next venue, also with an outdoor stage. The name I didn’t see anywhere, or perhaps don’t remember, but the bar was overwhelmingly Soviet themed and the walls were adorned with numerous hammers and sickles. The band playing ( LINK ) was a rockin’ enough 5 piece with a pretty impressive synthesizer set-up. Their name and wardrobe somehow brought to mind the Who. There was a tree beside me. A very pretty redhead in mirror sunglasses climbed up the tree in order to get a better view. P. and I geeked out and had a long and nerdy discussion about the uses of synthesizers in rock bands. We both agreed that even when synthesizers were present (like the impressive spread on the stage before us) they were never used to their full potential, and always played too low through the P.A.
Looking at the stage, looking at the cables and mic stands and amplifiers and guitars and scratch plates and all those objects ingrained in our consciousness as symbols of rock n’ roll, it suddenly struck me that one of the genre’s prodigal forefathers, the bean pole and bespectacled Buddy Holly was a Texan. What would he have to say of the new monster he played an instrumental role on releasing upon the global populace? The whole question seemed very poignant at the time. How far were we from Lubbock?
Some security staff approached the near-by tree and said, “Excuse me, little lady. Pardon me pretty redhead. I need you. To climb down. From that tree.”
We left to do some buying of burritos from food stands, then do the eating of those same burritos.
The next venue we went to was called Paradise, and Oh boy was Paradise a classy place with high ceilings and handsome wood floors. We had to walk up the staircase at the back to the second floor where the little stage was in the corner. I walked onto the balcony to smoke cigarettes by the iron lattice work railing. Propane lamps affixed into the walls murmured milky white light. People on the street below were passing happily about.
The musician playing in Paradise, was formerly of a band I listened to in high school and for a while now had a solo career that I listened to a little bit also. She played one of my favorite songs about the various alcoholic beverages she consumed for breakfast. I was drinking a beer. Ol’ Kimbo Dawson. ( LINK ) I didn’t know you had left us. I didn’t know you’d sobered up. She spoke in stage banter she had a daughter who was visiting the Austin children’s museum. Kimbo recommended it. She lives on a farm in Oregon. She leads church choir meetings. The opening act was another cleaned up and sobered up musician named Pablo ( LINK ) who played onstage with just his guitar and his mighty voice. He wore and denim jacket with its sleeves cut off. Pablo and Kimbo played a few songs together. Kimbo sang “to call her up if I’m no dead so we could make some plans instead.”
Kimbo and Pablo hung around to greet fans in a room now hanging under a warm fuzzy feeling. I wanted to dump out my beer and order a lemonade instead. I wanted to go to the Austin children’s museum.
Then bouncing back to Emo’s. I’m not sure