You Don’t Call, You Don’t Write……
Several of our viewers have asked if we’ve heard from our friends in China. Alas, we have not. Maybe they’re shy. Maybe they think this is all a clever government plot to ferret out readers of American blogs. Maybe they can’t read English and they like to tune us in to look at the funny foreign words. Who knows? At least they’re still watching. The guy from Denmark left the building.
Horse College
Here’s a good lesson for you on horse racing.
Often, young horses come from behind at the end of sprint races (for our purposes, let’s call sprints 6 furlongs, although, technically, they’re anything under a mile), giving the appearance of animals who want to run longer. Sometimes, this is the case. Horses who can’t win a $25,000 claiming race at 6 furlongs will romp in an allowance at a mile. Other times, horses giving the appearance of distance horses are merely fast-closing sprinters. Checking the pedigree of a horse helps to figure this out, although it is by no means foolproof.
The other day, Crimson Streak, who looked like he might want more distance in his first two races, ran a mile for the first time. He was in the first flight of horses with 3/8 of a mile to go, slowly dropped back and had nothing left at the finish. So it’s back to the drawing board with him….move him back to a sprint, take the blinkers off, put the original rider back on, duplicate all the conditions of his first (and best) race. Of course, we can’t un-geld him. There are no do-overs for gelding.
Crimson Song is entered for Sunday, the 19th, her first time going a mile. Her sire, Concerto, has many distance horses, so hopefully that’s not going to be a problem. We need to win a race or we’ll be eating weeds.
On The Road Again
This is the weekend where, every other year, we travel to the Florida-Tennessee football game in Knoxville. We drive to Chattanooga, visit Siobhan’s brother Stuart and his wife Mary, stay overnight, and tool on over to the game on Saturday. At least I do. And Stuart. Siobhan and Mary amble around Chattanooga, visiting tea parlors, bookshops and various other dens of iniquity which Mary has discovered since the last trip. We used to have nieces to play with, but Ashleigh moved to Berlin and Kathleen, after promising faithfully for years that she would be a Gator, defected to the University of North Carolina (a football nonentity, Kathleen). We’re looking forward to the temperature reduction. 230 fans were treated for heat problems in Gainesville at last weekend’s game, cleverly scheduled at 12:20 for television purposes. At least I wasn’t one of them.
Since we can’t make the race, Cosmic Song is bound to win.
Lost in Houston….or ‘Rice is Nice’
Criminally destitute after weeks in Austin, I needed some kind of money-making enterprise. There weren’t many jobs to be had, and after a half-day effort at the Moore Burger stand, I was out of luck in Austin. Fortunately, or so I thought, Trans Texas Airlines, a fast-growing business headquartered in Houston was looking for an editor for its house organ. I knew this because Loyd Edmonds, Director of Publications at UT, told me about it. Old Loyd didn’t feel comfortable about me working at the Ranger since I was a non-student, so he was very happy to write me a great recommendation and foist me off to Trans Texas. So I took a bus to Houston, got a locker at Greyhound, shaved and cleaned up there, looking almost like a normal interviewee. And what the hell, I’d been recommended by the redoubtable Loyd Edmonds, what more could they want?
The job was explained to me. I could do it in my sleep. After editing, publishing, writing and art directing your own magazine, a subsidized, modest-sized house organ that people actually help you prepare is a snap. Yes, indeed, my good man, I can start tomorrow.
“We’re very happy you came, Mr. Killeen. Of course, we do have some other applicants to interview, but your experience and Mr. Edmonds’ testimonial weigh heavily in your favor.”
Well, gee, yeah, that’s all very nice, I thought, but where do I sleep til you decide? Do they have any motel rooms for six dollars?
“I can give you an answer by the end of the week.”
Moan. Four days of homelessness and mini-hamburgers. At least, in Austin there was always a place to crash.
Oh well, what the hell. I decided I could live with almost no food and I would find a place to sleep. I went into a gas station and surveyed the giant wall map of metropolitan Houston, looking for Rice Institute, which, it turned out, wasn’t far from my current location.
Arriving after a much longer walk than I expected, I meandered up to a group of Rice students. They were surprisingly friendly and helpful. Being generally safe and secure themselves, they were sympathetic and remotely envious of my circumstances.
“The far dormitory,” one bright-eyed fellow pointed out, “is vacant. They won’t be using it for a few weeks. The doors are locked, but some of the windows won’t be. Just take the screens off until you find an unlocked window.”
“What about security?”
A second student jumped in, thrilled to be a part of this intrigue.
“No problem,” he guaranteed. “They check the rooms at six a.m. and nine p.m. If you leave before six and come back after nine, you can stay there forever. Just don’t turn on any lights.”
“There’s electricity?”
“Sure.”
Hot dog. Hot water.
“Thanks a lot, men. You are gentlemen and scholars.”
“We have professors who would argue the point.”
“Nevertheless.”
“If you run into any problems or have questions, here’s our phone number.”
Now all I had to do was find an open window. I waited until eleven o’clock, then came back. I got lucky on the fourth try. I was now the only resident of Whatever Hall. I learned all about showering in the dark and rising early.
Stretching the cash until Friday wasn’t that tough. I went on the Very Small Meal program and maintained admirably, despite untold miles of daily walking. I saw everything there was to see in Houston, including a black-only bowling alley, my first. They were all quite surprised to see me, too, until I took a quick u-turn at the water-cooler and moseyed out. Time passes slowly when you’re not having fun. It took forever to get to Friday. When it finally arrived, I was probably the first caller of the day at good old Trans Texas.
“Well, I have to apologize, Me. Killeen. I’ve had so much to do, I had to put some of my interviews on the back burner. It will be the middle of next week before I can give you my decision.”
Sorry, bub, don’t have til the middle of next week. It’s now or never.
“Oh, I’m sorry to hear that. You were one of our leading candidates.”
He seemed genuinely regretful, but not as much as I would have been after another week in Houston. Oh, well. As Pat Brown would say, “Their f**cking loss.”
I walked west to the highway, chirping a happy tune. No job, no money, no prospects. But who cared? I was Austin-bound.
Janis Gets a Stage
Threadgill’s Bar was located in a converted gas station far west of the city limits of Austin. Presided over by the portly and charismatic Ken Threadgill, the bar featured a jukebox (which contained only Jimmy Rogers lps) and a small stage, where locals could get together and twang. Threadgill had a deli case with a good selection of cheese and more beer than Jesus. Country music, like mariachi music, increases in quality proportionate to the amount of beer you drink along with it and you were going to get every opportunity to enjoy the hell out of it at this place.
The crowd at Threadgill’s was eclectic, to say the least. It was not unusual to find UT English professors mixing it up with Texas state senators and Austin business types strumming away and yowling some old classic, like Rogers’ Waitin’ For A Train, which Mr. Threadgill would complement with his fine yodeling. If all this sounds like a dubious way for a kid from Massachusetts to spend his evenings, it’s only because you didn’t hear the music. For whatever reason, I’d always liked country music, definitely a good thing if you’re going to go to college in Oklahoma. And the Threadgill’s crowd was dedicated, talented and great fun.
Janis was immediately taken with the place. Even though she had always been sarcastic about country music—which, after all, was the opiate of the “straight people”—she was now able to see it through the eyes of the Threadgill’s crowd, which she liked and respected. Also, Janis had good radar—she knew quickly which songs were sacrosanct and with which ones you could take liberties.
Although Janis had sung at parties and the UT folksings, she was nervous about singing in a small room before strangers who might not like her. And without Powell and Lanny. Mr. Threadgill did not seem to know what to make of this strange new girl, but he warily led her up to the mini-stage, got her name again, and introduced her and two regulars on guitar, who would accompany her.
Janis bantered nervously with the thirty or so people scattered around the room. Then she sang Fennario, which she felt safe with and didn’t need much instrumental help for. The audience was polite, adopting a wait-and-see attitude through the first couple of verses. Then Janis began to play with the song, changing a couple of words here and there, finally inserting a corny verse of her own, which everybody loved. She had them laughing now and she grew in confidence. She led the room through Life Is Like A Mountain Railroad, which many people knew and enjoyed singing, then came back with an arch rendition of We Need A Whole Lot More Of Jesus And A Lot Less Rock And Roll, sung with evangelic fervor. Mr. Threadgill was warming up to this.
She decided it was time to try one of their songs, choosing the erementioned classic Waitin’ For A Train, which Threadgill shuffled up to join her in at his yodeling best.
Everybody in the place was ready to sit there all night listening to this stuff. The music went on well past last call and, when it finally ended, both Threadgill and Janis were elated. Old Ken had been around long enough to know when he had seen something special. And Janis? Now she had a place to sing.
Old College Magazine Joke (from 1965)
A drunk stared for a long while at a very homely passenger on his bus. Finally, he blurted out, “My Gawd, but you’re ugly!"
“I can’t help the way I look,” answered the woman.
The drunk looked at her for a moment and then screamed, “Well….at least you could stay HOME!”
That’s all, folks.
