I Get By With A
Little Help From My Friends
Last week, I bemoaned my recent sleeping difficulties, so naturally I got suggestions from everybody out there on what to do about it. Irana, after admitting she never sleeps, recommended chamomile tea. Just what I need—advice from somebody who never sleeps. Court Lewis, in Johnson City, says you’ve got to succumb to the Ambien on occasions but I’m afraid “on occasions” might not be enough. The clear winner in the Sleep Suggestion Derby, however, has to be Marty Jourard out in Kirkland, Washington. Marty says:
2.—Thorazine suppository. A hooker used one of these once in the bathroom of my Hollywood apartment. She fell asleep immediately.
3.—Fentanyl drip. But again, there are side effects. Death being one of them.
4.—Warm milk with vanilla wafers. My Dad recommended this one. It’s iffy, but medically safe.
Hope I’ve been of genuine help. Marty.
So who is left to deny I’ll Have Another in his quest for the elusive Triple Crown? Eleven Derby/Preakness winners have reached this point since 1978 but none of them have secured the Belmont, the 1 ½ mile “Test of Champions.” Some have come close. Others have succumbed to the tortuous 3-races-in-five-weeks schedule. This horse, apparently unfazed by physical demands of the Triple Crown, is currently 4-5 to accomplish his mission. Right now, I give him a 60-40 chance. He must still get from here to there without any problems.
The competition should come from the so far ill-fated Union Rags, the victim of terrible racing luck in his last two starts, who will benefit from John Velazquez in the saddle, and Dullahan, closing fastest of all in the Kentucky Derby to finish third. Both of these horses passed on the Preakness and come into the Belmont well-rested. There will be others, at least one speed horse and a couple of closers, to add to the stew. We’ll go over the possibilities the Thursday before the Belmont. Hopefully, I’ll Have Another will not step on a pin in his stall (like Spectacular Bid) or contract yaws or whooping cough in the meantime.
Rebound!
Fontaine also hooked me up to the Ghetto Line, which she hovers over as doyenne and Grand Marshall. The Ghetto Line is an internet network of (primarily) old Austinites who keep in touch—very frequently, in many cases—on line. All posts are received by everybody on the network, which can be both good and bad. As with everything, there are the overreachers, who feel they must comment, often at great length, on the Issues Of The Day. ALL the issues of the day. Fontaine calls them “the blatherers.” And, of course, there are the ubiquitous conspiracy theorists, a group impossible to avoid. Interestingly, many of these are on the left instead of the right, for a change. But all in all, the Ghetto Line is a terrific idea, binding together a population with like pursuasions, advising of upcoming events of common interest and providing great entertainment. One woman who had recently toured Europe posted her travel photos the other day and they were exceptional. Another guy came up with a list of hilarious newspaper faux pas’. Fontaine, herself, keeps comments to a minimum, dipping in like a reverse hummingbird, depositing nectar in single sentences. The other day, a writer made some comments to the Ghetto Line about Chen Guangcheng, the Chinese dissident blind guy recently flown to the United States after his release from prison in China. Almost as soon as he got here, Chen started berating Americans for their obsession with the Kardashians, notably Kim. Fontaine had a great response to this.
“Well, the poor guy can’t see her tits,” she said.
Austin
“Here,” said Shelton, offering the pistol. “Fire away.” I can report with confidence that no cans died on my watch. Miraculously, no people died either. Welcome to Austin.
The next weeks were filled with fighting wild bats in nocturnal battles in restaurants near the Congress Avenue Bridge, watching meteor swarms while lolling in the waters of Lake Austin, dining on the extremely ample 88-cent Mexican plates—often around midnight—in Little Mexico (my name for it, not Austin’s) and engaging in full-scale waterballoon wars in lovely Zilker Park. I was fortunate during this time to have no personal automobile transportation and thus was forced to walk everywhere. It gave me a greater appreciation for the place, its oddities and nuances, its sights and sounds and smells.
When you think about Texas, most of you think flat and dry and colorless. Austin is none of these. It is rife with hills and expansive parks and lakes and springs. A river runs through it. A big river, at that (the Colorado—no, not that one, the other one). Austin is the Capitol of Texas and the Capitol building looks like a Capitol building should look, modeled on the one in Washington as it is (the dome is bigger in Texas, of course). Austin is also home to the University of Texas, a vast empire which owns its own oil wells and occasionally purloins a major faculty member from the Ivies or Berkeley. The Austin music scene is incomparable, the famous Sixth street bars offering more live music of more different kinds than anywhere, and that includes Nashville.
When I was in Austin, there was a party, often with music, almost every night of the week. The women were great-looking and approachable. The atmosphere was positive and exciting. The people I interacted with were very smart and talented. And they were drawn to this place. From what I read and hear, such people still are.
Tony Bell, a native Texan and fellow Ranger staffer, often decried his fellow Texans for what he called “state nationalism.” But he was proud to be an Austinite. One is prone to say, hey, Austin people, you don’t know what you’ve got. But they do. And that’s why so many of them never leave—or, on realizing their horrible errors in departing, eventually return. There is a substance and a spirit to Austin not found many places. It glows with originality. It overflows with optimism. It appreciates talent in whatever form. It is unparalleled.
I realize that Austin is not the same as it was so long ago when I was there. I have visited a few times since and seen changes both positive and negative. But Austin still retains its soul and I suspect it always will. Many of us find ourselves regretting that with time and family and business we get locked into spending our lives in one tiny corner of the world. I don’t think the people who live in Austin regret it at all.
Last week, I bemoaned my recent sleeping difficulties, so naturally I got suggestions from everybody out there on what to do about it. Irana, after admitting she never sleeps, recommended chamomile tea. Just what I need—advice from somebody who never sleeps. Court Lewis, in Johnson City, says you’ve got to succumb to the Ambien on occasions but I’m afraid “on occasions” might not be enough. The clear winner in the Sleep Suggestion Derby, however, has to be Marty Jourard out in Kirkland, Washington. Marty says:
A few sleep
suggestions:
1.—Mainline Heroin. You won’t sleep but you won’t really care.2.—Thorazine suppository. A hooker used one of these once in the bathroom of my Hollywood apartment. She fell asleep immediately.
3.—Fentanyl drip. But again, there are side effects. Death being one of them.
4.—Warm milk with vanilla wafers. My Dad recommended this one. It’s iffy, but medically safe.
Hope I’ve been of genuine help. Marty.
It’s not everywhere you can get valuable advice like this. I’m going to start on these suggestions right
away. I’ll be trying Number 4 first.
So who is left to deny I’ll Have Another in his quest for the elusive Triple Crown? Eleven Derby/Preakness winners have reached this point since 1978 but none of them have secured the Belmont, the 1 ½ mile “Test of Champions.” Some have come close. Others have succumbed to the tortuous 3-races-in-five-weeks schedule. This horse, apparently unfazed by physical demands of the Triple Crown, is currently 4-5 to accomplish his mission. Right now, I give him a 60-40 chance. He must still get from here to there without any problems.
The competition should come from the so far ill-fated Union Rags, the victim of terrible racing luck in his last two starts, who will benefit from John Velazquez in the saddle, and Dullahan, closing fastest of all in the Kentucky Derby to finish third. Both of these horses passed on the Preakness and come into the Belmont well-rested. There will be others, at least one speed horse and a couple of closers, to add to the stew. We’ll go over the possibilities the Thursday before the Belmont. Hopefully, I’ll Have Another will not step on a pin in his stall (like Spectacular Bid) or contract yaws or whooping cough in the meantime.
Rebound!
It wasn’t anything earth-shattering but our 3-year-old
filly, Cosmic Crown, returned to the
track after two unsuccessful starts to finish third on Preakness Day at Calder,
beaten only 1 ¼ lengths for it all.
Cosmic Crown broke on top, as usual, but, per instructions from trainer
Larry Pilotti, jockey Fernando Jara took her back off the pace. Larry felt the filly was running a too-fast
first quarter and not finishing well because of it. This time, she caught the leaders in the turn
and was head-and-head down the stretch, falling back a smidge at the wire. A good effort, nonetheless. They pay you for third, right?
A Blast From The Past
Last Friday, we were sitting around looking at Google
Analytics to see who was reading The Flying
Pie and we got a big surprise. All
of a sudden, there was a lot of action in Texas. Shortly after that, there were three new
Followers. One of them, Fontaine Maverick (and who has a better
name than that—it’s even better than distant
relatives Bret and Bart?), was in Austin at the same time I was in the early
sixties and we travelled in the same circles, though not really interacting
with each other. Fontaine had started
the ball rolling while searching the internet for material on our mutual
friend, Lieuen Adkins. His name came up
and with it a list of The Flying Pie columns featuring
Lieuen. The foremost of these has, in
the past week, now been read by half the population of Texas, which really says
a lot more about Lieuen than it does about us, but we’ll take readers any way
we can get them.Fontaine also hooked me up to the Ghetto Line, which she hovers over as doyenne and Grand Marshall. The Ghetto Line is an internet network of (primarily) old Austinites who keep in touch—very frequently, in many cases—on line. All posts are received by everybody on the network, which can be both good and bad. As with everything, there are the overreachers, who feel they must comment, often at great length, on the Issues Of The Day. ALL the issues of the day. Fontaine calls them “the blatherers.” And, of course, there are the ubiquitous conspiracy theorists, a group impossible to avoid. Interestingly, many of these are on the left instead of the right, for a change. But all in all, the Ghetto Line is a terrific idea, binding together a population with like pursuasions, advising of upcoming events of common interest and providing great entertainment. One woman who had recently toured Europe posted her travel photos the other day and they were exceptional. Another guy came up with a list of hilarious newspaper faux pas’. Fontaine, herself, keeps comments to a minimum, dipping in like a reverse hummingbird, depositing nectar in single sentences. The other day, a writer made some comments to the Ghetto Line about Chen Guangcheng, the Chinese dissident blind guy recently flown to the United States after his release from prison in China. Almost as soon as he got here, Chen started berating Americans for their obsession with the Kardashians, notably Kim. Fontaine had a great response to this.
“Well, the poor guy can’t see her tits,” she said.
Reason enough to follow the Ghetto Line.
Austin
A few weeks ago, our friend Leslie Logan out in Portland, Oregon was in the middle of a
possible career change scenario. She
loved Portland but wasn’t sure she’d stay.
I told her to consider Austin before moving anywhere else. I tell everybody this. Pat Brown, an Austin lifer, told me to cut it
out because the traffic jams in Austin were bad enough already. But one of the reasons I’m so outspoken on
the subject is I know anybody who follows this advice will probably be happy
they did. I have lived all over the
country and travelled through most of the rest of it and I have come to realize
that the great majority of it is not for me.
Scattered through the vast wasteland, however, are Oases of
Enlightenment like Boston and Seattle and San Francisco. Madison.
Ann Arbor. Even Gainesville, to
me the second-best place to live. But Austin is better. Even though it’s too far from the oceans,
even though it’s too hot and dry in the summer (followed often by scary
flooding), even though it’s miles from everywhere. Still best.
The first time I was in Austin was the summer of 1962. I drove—barely—into town in my staggering
1950 Cadillac Superior Model hearse and promptly encamped at Gilbert Shelton’s
homey apartment hard by the Interregional Expressway on the east side of
town. I think it might have been 9th
Street. A few months later, they knocked
the place down and put up a post office.
Being broke, I was there right up until the knocking started, maybe a
little after. The first morning, Gilbert
took me out on Lake Travis with a couple of friends, one of which owned a
dubious motorboat. The subject of the
day was shooting guns at floating cans.
I had never even see a gun up close before.“Here,” said Shelton, offering the pistol. “Fire away.” I can report with confidence that no cans died on my watch. Miraculously, no people died either. Welcome to Austin.
The next weeks were filled with fighting wild bats in nocturnal battles in restaurants near the Congress Avenue Bridge, watching meteor swarms while lolling in the waters of Lake Austin, dining on the extremely ample 88-cent Mexican plates—often around midnight—in Little Mexico (my name for it, not Austin’s) and engaging in full-scale waterballoon wars in lovely Zilker Park. I was fortunate during this time to have no personal automobile transportation and thus was forced to walk everywhere. It gave me a greater appreciation for the place, its oddities and nuances, its sights and sounds and smells.
When you think about Texas, most of you think flat and dry and colorless. Austin is none of these. It is rife with hills and expansive parks and lakes and springs. A river runs through it. A big river, at that (the Colorado—no, not that one, the other one). Austin is the Capitol of Texas and the Capitol building looks like a Capitol building should look, modeled on the one in Washington as it is (the dome is bigger in Texas, of course). Austin is also home to the University of Texas, a vast empire which owns its own oil wells and occasionally purloins a major faculty member from the Ivies or Berkeley. The Austin music scene is incomparable, the famous Sixth street bars offering more live music of more different kinds than anywhere, and that includes Nashville.
When I was in Austin, there was a party, often with music, almost every night of the week. The women were great-looking and approachable. The atmosphere was positive and exciting. The people I interacted with were very smart and talented. And they were drawn to this place. From what I read and hear, such people still are.
Tony Bell, a native Texan and fellow Ranger staffer, often decried his fellow Texans for what he called “state nationalism.” But he was proud to be an Austinite. One is prone to say, hey, Austin people, you don’t know what you’ve got. But they do. And that’s why so many of them never leave—or, on realizing their horrible errors in departing, eventually return. There is a substance and a spirit to Austin not found many places. It glows with originality. It overflows with optimism. It appreciates talent in whatever form. It is unparalleled.
I realize that Austin is not the same as it was so long ago when I was there. I have visited a few times since and seen changes both positive and negative. But Austin still retains its soul and I suspect it always will. Many of us find ourselves regretting that with time and family and business we get locked into spending our lives in one tiny corner of the world. I don’t think the people who live in Austin regret it at all.
Hook ‘em, Horns….
