Monthly Archives: March 2008
Weekend warriers
| March 4, 2008 | Filled under Blog |
One week before he’s scheduled to leave again C finally got his ’79 Vespa running. Notice how he got mine running before his first hitch in January. Guy knows how to prioritize.
Anyway, the two of us and Lance decided to take advantage of the weather Saturday, and started by meeting at Star Pizza in the Heights. God, the Salsa Verde pizza there is dee-vine. Served deep dish on wheat, with a side of their most amazing marinara to dip the crust into afterwards. Heaven.
Afterwards we rode to Glenwood Cemetery to see Howard Hughes’ gravesite. C worked aboard the Glomar Explorer long ago and thus has a single degree of separation from Howard Hughes, as well as some interesting stories (and souvenirs) from the ship.
Glenwood Cemetery is my second-favorite cemetery in Houston (my favorite being that spooky, old, hidden cemetery in danger of being built over on Dallas near Shepherd). Glenwood is great for many reasons — the famous who are buried there, the tree-canopied roads, the smell of fresh bread from the Sunbeam factory across the street. Glenwood is especially fun to explore on a scooter because the roads twist and wind and there are enough hills that you can squeeze in your clutch and coast for a good long time, and towards the back of the lots there is a nice view of the bayou.
From Glenwood we took Houston Avenue downtown and then headed towards the Third Ward in search of this insane Jesus billboard, which I now know was actually installed (and removed) sometime in the summer of 2006, despite what that recently-dated blog post will have you believe.
A cruise down Memorial and through the park, hampered by annoying rodeo traffic, ended our journey, as I had to be at the museum at 4:30 p.m. in order to assist with a members’ party. I got to hobnob with museum donors and even got off an hour early. In all it was a damn good day. Sorry I didn’t take any pictures, but my hand was too busy revving the throttle.
One must not treat children like adults
| March 6, 2008 | Filled under Blog |
Tuesday C and I participated in our first caucus. It was a festive event — we walked the five minutes from our house to our polling location with a collapsible cooler and made friends in the line by talking about the various candidates. There were Obamaphiles everywhere and for some reason not a Clintonite to be seen. Something like 200 people filed in and out of the bed and breakfast, filling the back yard and front and hanging out by the swimming pool, which gave the entire affair the air of a block party. There were so many people they stopped asking for registration cards. While other polling locations were on the brink of devolving into riots ours was a happy hearty place which I think can be attributed to the diversity and personality of our still-thriving gay-borhood (a subject I have more to say about later).
I’ve been obscenely excited to participate in the political process this year. More excited than one should be. I can’t decide if it’s because my candidate of choice has filled me with the most hope and optimism than I’ve felt for this country in a very long time, or if I’m just glad to be back in Western Civilization and all the trappings that go along with it. Nonetheless, I’m relieved the election is over here, for the next eight months at least, because I can no longer bear to witness conversations like the one I eavesdropped during lunch on Monday, in which a seven-year-old overly-precocious boy and his septuagenarian Eastern-European grandmother hotly debated what Obama could do for the country. The grandmother (and the parents, who for some annoying reason encouraged this argument) believed that Obama was a Socialist who, once elected to office, would steal from her family all their collected wealth. I might add that this conversation came right on the coattails of another dialogue in which the three adults at the table discussed what to do with their uninhabited second home, located in River Oaks.
Now, I understand this Bloc-raised woman may have had some Ayn Rand-ian aversion to socialism and an unnatural love for capitalistic culture, fine, but the entire conversation was ridiculous and crazy-making (who argues with a seven-year-old over politics? What seven-year-old knows that much about politics?) not to mention the fact that I was annoyed anyway because these people were totally abusing their waiter to begin with, and then the entire event was brought full-circle yesterday when I spotted the kid, mother and grandmother on my turf, at the museum. AND! AND! The whole time this conversation was happening another couple was arguing politics to my right and the restaurant’s televisions were tuned to network news and so I was trapped in some kind of a Homer-esque hell of stereo political gobbledy-gook.
Then, after we voted in the caucus Tuesday evening we went to eat sushi with neighbor friends and were yelled at by an overweight female Clinton supporter with a horrible ’80s man’s haircut who was eating alone. Not to say she’s indicative of ALL Clinton supporters. It was just an observation.
Stupidest Question of the Week
| March 9, 2008 | Filled under Shorts |
Lady: Does this elevator go to the other floors?
In my head: No, it just shoots you into outer space like the one in the Wonka Factory.
Upon my velocipede
| March 14, 2008 | Filled under Blog |
When we first moved back to Houston I bought a new bicycle. It was a difficult decision to trade my old beach cruiser in since we’d had some good times together. And some bad. I still have scars on my ankles from trying to ride that thing on the Memorial Park bike trail so treacherous it’s nickname is the Ho Chi Min. But the new bike is better in dozens of ways. The tires have grip. It has shocks! And more than 20 speeds and front and rear breaks.
Three years ago I rode my Schwinn beach cruiser — the bike with no gears and with nothing but coaster breaks — in the first annual Tour de Houston. Twenty miles isn’t that far on a bike, and that was my plan. Ride 20 miles and see how I feel. The long ride was 40 miles, but the route circled through Houston’s six wards and passed close by my house several times along the way, so I figured I could skip out and ride home at any time. When I felt pretty good at the end of 20 miles I decided to just keep going. At 30 miles I didn’t feel so positive. Towards the end of the ride I was getting to the relief stations so late they were already out of snacks and water. But still I soldiered on, me on my beach cruiser, and I finished the race so emotionally and physically drained I actually cried with relief.
Much has changed since then. I weigh about 30 pounds less and I’m in much better shape in terms of muscle mass and cardio endurance. And I have a better bike. So tomorrow I’m going to ride the Tour de Houston again, and this time I’m aiming for a distance they didn’t have the first year, 70 miles.
Seventy miles on a bicycle. We’re actually going to be riding on the highway. We’re riding to the suburbs of Houston and back. Seventy miles is like riding your bike from Oklahoma City to Stillwater.
I’m not sure if I can actually do it, but I am so excited about giving it a try that I can’t even sleep, and I have to be up at 5 a.m. tomorrow.
Chafed
| March 18, 2008 | Filled under Photo Album |
So I only did the 40-miler. But it took me less than three hours and I’ll challenge anyone who thinks that not a brag-worthy accomplishment.
There were never any good ol’ days
| March 19, 2008 | Filled under Photo Album |
Gogol Bordello restored my faith in rock-n-roll last night. Best show of the year, so far, but Dengue Fever is next weekend so we shall see.
Before the show I was walking Gus* as the sun was setting when we crossed paths with a small gray creature moving slowly along the sidewalk. On a couple of evenings Gus and I have come across a huge possum chillaxin’ near the dumpster in the alley across the street. By huge I mean bigger than Gus, who weighs 25 pounds. I think someone feeds it — there is a hole under the fence through which it always scurries and in the mornings I see paper plates with what looks like cat food lovingly placed in the escape path.
But last night the possum we saw was quite small, probably juvenile, and slow to climb the bush where it sought refuge from my canine. Gus was straining at his leash and I was curious to get as close to the joey as possible, but the kiddo remained calm and cool, not quite playing dead but not ignoring us either. I damned myself for not having my camera and briefly considered running inside for it but was afraid the dude would be gone by then. It was cute! I wanted to snuggle it, but the thought of it’s tiny possum paws scratching out my eyeballs made me keep my distance. That and the fact Gus was FREAKING OUT. Anyway, I think it’s pretty cool that I live about one minute from downtown off one of the busiest streets in Houston and I have wildlife literally in my front yard.
Here comes the sad part of the story: this morning as we were walking before work Gus and I came across a stray cat near the same dumpster where we see the big possum. Cat looked dirty and skinny from afar, typical for a stray, but it was lazing in a patch of sunlight and seemed undisturbed until it noticed us and Gus noticed it. Then it raised it’s head and I could see what looked like a long, thick string of either snot or pus hanging from it’s face. One of it’s eyes was swollen closed. And instead of darting away it got up real slow and then I saw that it’s tail was almost nearly hairless and as thin around as my pinkie. It didn’t even have the energy to run away, only to hiss a weak warning at us.
The whole sight was so simultaneously saddening and disgusting that I felt physically ill. I’m am not much of a cat lover, but jeez, even a raging bastard could understand why I had a hard time choking back tears as I walked back to our door. Poor, poor baby. I wonder now if the cat food was actually for the cat, not the fat possum, and if so then someone is severely neglecting that cat, even if it’s just someone who’s feeding a stray.
I couldn’t be party to that neglect, so as soon as I got to work I called the HSPCA. I’m not entirely sure I’ve done my good deed for the day though. If the cat gets rescued and rehabilitated then I’ll think I have, but even if it’s humanely put out of it’s misery I will feel better for having called. Uhg, even the small amount of recollection it takes to type this has my throat tightening and my heart hurting for that poor little baby.
*Speaking of Gus, this month my sweet little clown is turning six years old.
Really? Really!?
| March 31, 2008 | Filled under Blog |
Ugh. Currently editing two-year-old blog posts that make me sound like a vapid, attention-hungry idiot.
But don’t worry, I’m not deleting any of them.
Yet.
