"I'd Rather Be Rammin' It, Than Strokin' It."
It was eloquent poetry, in the most appropriate of places. Applique on the back window of a '78 Dodge Ram pickup on I-45 just north of Houston reminding me of the finer things in life. But it had been a long two days in the Bayou City and my mind was susceptible to such suggestive wonders of literature.
I met Paul at his new apartment Friday afternoon. I had some time to waste before Paul got home from work so I strolled over to an old cemetary near by to read headstones.
I like to do this at times.
Many of the events of history that I learned about in school are represented in the stone monuments placed in these peoples' memory. One man here lost his life as a soldier in the Spanish-American War.
I'm always struck hardest by the relflection of high infant mortality rates during The Great Depression. I stumble across a small patch of marble mostly buried under dirt and grass. I begin to brush away the covering to reveal a tiny headstone about as big as a piece of paper. "Joseph," Born: January, 1893. Died: April, 1893.
It was during my junior year of high school when I found the birth certificate and death certificate of my "baby" brother. In truth, he was actually a couple of years older than me. Or should I say, he would have been. His life, however, lasted about as long as that of Joseph. It's times like this that make me miss the brother I never got to meet; times like this that I mourn my parents' loss.
The Bond Family plot lies only 20 feet from the spot I am standing now. There are probably two generations of Bonds here.
No James though.
After packing the car, Paul and I headed out of town around 6 o'clock. The drive to Houston was very uneventful. We stopped for dinner at the Huntsville IHoP. I had the infamous "Big Country Breakfast." Four bisquits with gravy, four links of pork sausage, three eggs over easy, hashbrowns, and a short stack of buttermilk pancakes. (Defibrillator not included.)
It's two days later and I'm still wishing I hadn't ordered that God-forsaken meal.
We arrived at Paul's brother's place around 10:30. Exhausted from the drive and nauseated from the cholesterol intake an hour prior, we thought it best to watch a movie before turning in for the night.
I opened my eyes at 6:45 to the sight of a beautiful, blond, blue-eyed, two-and-a-half-foot tall little girl a foot away from my face. Oni, short for Veronica, is one of Pete and Bitsa Romer's five little children. Tori was their first. She is four years old now. The Quads, Petey, Joe, Sam, and dear Oni came along two years ago.
I'm not sure how long she had been standing there, trying to figure out who this strange person was lying on HER couch in HER house. As my eyes struggled to focus on her, I smiled and said "Hi!"
"Whehs Tody?"
"What, sweetheart?"
"Wheh's Tori?"
"Oh, I don't know where Tori is. Maye she's saying 'Hi' to Uncle Paulie. He's in the room there."
She turned and walked away, blanket in tow.
Our day was full. We spent the morning looking at Vespas and motorcycles. In the afternoon it was off to see my brother and his wife, then to my parents house. It was a short visit on both accounts. My parents expressed their dissatisfaction with this, but we had plans on the other side of town. Before our commute, we had an errand to run at Specs Liquor. As we walked in the front door, we were introduced to the Campari girl. I knew that I did not care for Campari, but this girl made me want to love the strange tasting Italian liquor. In fact, she made me want to buy a case of the stuff. But then, I can't help but think that this was their plan all along. I did not buy any Campari that day; but I wrote a song for the Campari girl, and someday, in some liquor store somewhere, we will meet again.
We drove from the west side of Houston to the north-east side for dinner in Kingwood. Smoked burgers and apple crisp.
We met Leslie at the Gingerman later that evening before heading off to the party that was our initial cause for coming to Houston. As we were walking in the door, Paul mockingly shrieked at a cockroach on the sidewalk. "That's nothing compared to what you'll see inside," the doorman proudly spoke.
We wouldn't understand his comment until about 20 minutes later, sitting outside in the back beer garden. It seems the Gingerman has some resident rats that like to cross the powerlines over the patio from the attic to the trees and back again. They became quite popular while we were there. As new people would arrive, their alarming cry of "RAT!" would be met by smiles from the patrons who had already accepted the rodent presence.
After a few minutes of talking, we find out that Paul and Leslie actually went to the same high-school. Well, Leslie went there for about a year. But Paul knows Leslie's sister. So at this point, I have nothing interesting to add to the conversation. I'm truly amazed at the literal circle of friends that I have made since moving to Dallas. I met Paul through Mark and Spencer, who he went to high-school with and I went to college with and later played in a band with. I met my friends Josh and Carly through Catherine Cuellar, and Catherine Cuellar...well, hell, everyone knows who Catherine Cuellar is. I met Catherine through Michael Jerome. Josh and Carly know Courtney and Lane. Lane and I went to high-school together. Courtney knew Leslie in college and met Josh and Carly who then introduced me to her. And Leslie knows Paul from high-school. Confused? I met
Billy and
Jessica at SXSW this year and just found out a couple of weeks ago that they know Josh and Carly from high-school. I'm sure they know Catherine Cuellar too.
Where was I?
We traveled to Stephanie's party after a couple of beers at the GingerRat and I proceeded (at Paul's request) to fashion my soon-to-be-famous "Bazooka Joe" shot. (I learned this shot from a kick-ass bartender in Montreal named Red. If you know him, tell him I said thanks.) If you remember Bazooka Joe bubble gum, you will enjoy this shot...even if you don't like bubble gum. Or so said several people at the party that were not fans of gum. I urge you to try it, but the ingredients are difficult to find. Equal Parts of: Bailey's, Creme de Banane, and (here's the elusive one) Parfait Amour. Try it. You'll like it.
We left the party relatively early knowing that, no matter what time we got home, the Quads and Tori wake up at 7:00 am sharp.
They did. And so did we.
After some time of playing with the kids, Paul and I headed back to Dallas. We had one more goal before we left the coastal area...seafood. My cajun insticts directed me, like a hound dog, to this Cajun shack somewhere in Conroe. I can't remember how we got there, I was kind of in a trance. The food was...the food was....
Look, I'm a very picky Cajun, as most Cajuns are. I don't even like to be called a Cajun. But my mom makes the best crawfish ettouffee in the world, and the best gumbo. This was not mom's cooking.
We've now left this place where, I should note, the waitress didn't know what Filé was, and we are traveling north out of Houston. The big Ram pickup in front of us has something written on the back window.
"Paul, what does that say?"
"I don't know. I think it say's 'I'd rather be rammin' it, than strokin' it."
God, I love Texas.
