As I get into El Paso I realize I have sun-stroke mixed with a cold in 105 degree weather. Basically I realize I’m fucked as I have to be in Austin in the morning and in good shape to see my friends and better shape to fight them off. There’s only one quick cure I know of. This is it. I fill the bathtub in the room with scalding hot water. I go to the store I buy a pint of Jamison whiskey and 2 gallons of water. I force myself into the tub and drink all of the above over the course of 30 minutes. I sleep face down.
When I wake up I seem to have knocked some of it. Enough that I might get thru the weekend in decent shape if I take it easy the first day.
The show at the Buckhorn held the resume as a low-end natural disaster…a flood that would just ruin the minor aesthetics of your home. It turned out overqualified and looking for a different job. A rattlesnake on hash. The new band, the lack of any practice, no sound check, and a venue meant for sitting…these elements aided and abided instead of pitted against. (ç arrow to abided, spell check makes unintentional truths) “ abetted” but both really.
I had a good time. The thick was produced in small fashion from a shoestring and some glue basically.
I almost flipped out on my plane ride into Houston. I find myself in panic mode when it comes to the deprivation of senses. Maybe I will seek out isolation tanks in short doses. My ears wouldn’t pop and I couldn’t breathe. (due to the head-cold) I was sitting in the outside seat and I could see the man inside of me (inside joke) beside me…frustrated by my flurry of home remedies. I buckled my elbows, plugged my nose, spit, stretched my jaw, and popped my toes...to no avail. When the waitress asked me what I wanted to drink I asked her for a piece of gum. When I grew tired of myself I read two magazines. When I landed I pursued a smile.
In one hour I will be in Austin, I will see Billy, Mark, Lindsey, Murph, Corey, Steve, Summer, Bobby, Sophia…just for starters…we will make a short stick out of a long weekend. We will ride it like a fucking witches broom.
God help me in Mexico City. Dear lord may I be sober and without the haggard degradation of a 1950’s romance writer. May the path of my heart be strong (thanks grandpapa) and willing to change. May I be blessed by the patron saint of espionage and fine dining on the cheap. Whoever you are. I consider you my campanero. My saint detective. Doing the field work. I owe you one. Next round cowboy. I't's on me. Atlas.
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