Chick(en)s on Speed
Quick rundown: it's almost 1 a.m., I just got back from Alpine, having gone with my boss to a little community art festival or something there, I'm drinking a Bud Light and the Velvet Underground's third, self-titled album is on my record player, which I finally began re-using this afternoon. On the television "I Know What You Did Last Summer" plays on mute, for no good reason whatsoever. I just noticed that the pan-and-scan on the film is pretty poorly done, and now Anne Heche is talking about something. But this post isn't about Jennifer Love Hewitt.
At around 5 this afternoon I was in this very same room, listening to records and reading. My boss calls me up, as he knows I'm sans girlfriend this weekend, and invites me out to Alpine for this festival. The Avalanche is our sister newspaper, incidentally. I don't have anything better to do, aside from maybe finishing up "Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close," which I've gotten into in the last few days after not really feeling it (present verdict: not as good/funny as "Illuminated" but still not all that bad, and the old man Oskar asked to help him puts me in the mind of Vonnegut or one of his proxies). Come over a little after 7 then, he says. OK, I say.
So it turns out that I'm driving. OK, no problem. Alpine is only about an hour away, no big deal. We start on, out I-10 to 67, and everything is going smoothly. We're talking about work, about the paper, about whatever. He's a cool guy and we get along well. The car ahead of me isn't going fast but it isn't really going slowly either- there's no real reason to pass, but it moves to the right, offering up a lane. OK then, I think, I guess I will pass. As I ease left to do so, I hit something- there's a loud clunk that sounds like something in the wheel well. The Explorer is noisy all the time with stuff like this, to no effect it had seemed, so I'm not worried. A ways later, a warning light comes on:
WARNING - LOW TIRE LEVEL.
Fuck. I have a flat tire. First time this has ever happened. I pull over.
Do you know how to fix a flat? I ask. Yeah, he says, and we set to changing the tire out. Or really my boss does; I just kind of stand there holding the laminated instruction card from the back of the car. He's going through this whole process as I look on, wondering what the hell I hit that punctured my tire. Damn it. So the tires get changed out, we get back on the road. He calls ahead to the people we're meeting, we're 30 or so miles away still. The car's warning system doesn't read that the spare is there, or something, so it keeps beeping at me, alerting me to the DANGEROUSLY LOW TIRE PRESSURE or some such thing. We shake it off and are soon almost to Alpine.
Just as we get into city limits, the speed limit drops, and quickly. Evidently I wasn't watching closely enough, and am over by a little and what do you know? There's a highway patrolman right there to see! He turns on his lights and I pull over. My boss and I have to laugh at the absolutely shit luck thus far. Earlier we mentioned omens; now that flippant conversation seems almost prophetic. I have never been pulled over for speeding before, ever. Another first tonight.
I get my insurance card out of the glove box and ready my driver's license. The officer approaches and I roll down my window. He tells me I was speeding and asks where we're from and where we're headed, taking my information. I am obviously harmless, and perhaps seem a little resigned to my fate. The guy takes pity and gives me a warning. I'm a little shaken but do my best to maintain whatever cool I still have left.
We finally get over to the Avalanche office, which is really pretty sweet. The publisher and his wife live above it in a loft with a great looking balcony, and it's right in the middle of downtown Alpine. The place seems to have a pretty active arts scene, and there's a college (Sul Ross State) there, so probably a nice gig. Still, even further from everything than Fort Stockton is, which is pretty damned far. The folks we meet up with are nice, we go to a fancy brewery, where I drink Lone Star instead of the homeade stuff, possibly offending the waitress. A guy comes in and plays the bagpipes while I eat my hamburger. Alpine wants too badly to be 'weird,' I'm concluding. Still, the burger was alright and the company is nice.
We walk around a bit, seeing some tortillas with pictures of dead rock stars on them at one gallery (Jimi Hendrix, John Lennon, Janis Joplin, etc) and searching for beer. We wind up at a bar with green tinted windows. I remark that it's like being inside a Heineken bottle. We head outside, I drink a couple more Lone Stars (only 2- I had to drive back) and we talk. The publisher at Alpine knows a friend of my family, and tells a bunch of stories about when he worked with my acquiantance. The best involves a press man named Lee, I think, who gave his fighting cocks speed and equipped their talons with razors.
We walk back to the office/loft and say our goodbyes. The drive home goes by easily enough; I'm very careful to adhere to the speed limit, actually going about 60 when I could've gone a bit faster. I'm also very careful to watch for rabbits and everything else scurrying across the darkened road. My boss is leaving soon and that's unfortunate, because we get along well and he's a cool, relaxed guy. I'm alerted to having a LOW FUEL LEVEL by the time we make it back to town. I drop my boss off, and find the house empty when I arrive. Lights are on throughout, but as usual, that means exactly nothing. Two beers still in the fridge; I grab one, put on a record and set about to recording the whole thing. What a night.
On the TV, Sarah Michelle Gellar is about to be hacked to pieces, it looks like. "The Murder Mystery" on the stereo - how appropriate. Earlier, "I'm Set Free" synched up with the aforementioned SMG kicking her way out of the back of a police car after the cop got gutted. What looked like chocolate syrup oozed out of his mouth.
I have an empty gas tank and need to replace my rear right tire. I have one more beer in the fridge, and I am probably going to drink it. I am not sure if I will be invited to church tomorrow. It's beginning to look like Freddie Prinze Jr. is the killer. This movie sucks. If there's a moral to this story it is this:
Beware chickens on speed.
FATHER'S DAY 2005
At around 5 this afternoon I was in this very same room, listening to records and reading. My boss calls me up, as he knows I'm sans girlfriend this weekend, and invites me out to Alpine for this festival. The Avalanche is our sister newspaper, incidentally. I don't have anything better to do, aside from maybe finishing up "Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close," which I've gotten into in the last few days after not really feeling it (present verdict: not as good/funny as "Illuminated" but still not all that bad, and the old man Oskar asked to help him puts me in the mind of Vonnegut or one of his proxies). Come over a little after 7 then, he says. OK, I say.
So it turns out that I'm driving. OK, no problem. Alpine is only about an hour away, no big deal. We start on, out I-10 to 67, and everything is going smoothly. We're talking about work, about the paper, about whatever. He's a cool guy and we get along well. The car ahead of me isn't going fast but it isn't really going slowly either- there's no real reason to pass, but it moves to the right, offering up a lane. OK then, I think, I guess I will pass. As I ease left to do so, I hit something- there's a loud clunk that sounds like something in the wheel well. The Explorer is noisy all the time with stuff like this, to no effect it had seemed, so I'm not worried. A ways later, a warning light comes on:
WARNING - LOW TIRE LEVEL.
Fuck. I have a flat tire. First time this has ever happened. I pull over.
Do you know how to fix a flat? I ask. Yeah, he says, and we set to changing the tire out. Or really my boss does; I just kind of stand there holding the laminated instruction card from the back of the car. He's going through this whole process as I look on, wondering what the hell I hit that punctured my tire. Damn it. So the tires get changed out, we get back on the road. He calls ahead to the people we're meeting, we're 30 or so miles away still. The car's warning system doesn't read that the spare is there, or something, so it keeps beeping at me, alerting me to the DANGEROUSLY LOW TIRE PRESSURE or some such thing. We shake it off and are soon almost to Alpine.
Just as we get into city limits, the speed limit drops, and quickly. Evidently I wasn't watching closely enough, and am over by a little and what do you know? There's a highway patrolman right there to see! He turns on his lights and I pull over. My boss and I have to laugh at the absolutely shit luck thus far. Earlier we mentioned omens; now that flippant conversation seems almost prophetic. I have never been pulled over for speeding before, ever. Another first tonight.
I get my insurance card out of the glove box and ready my driver's license. The officer approaches and I roll down my window. He tells me I was speeding and asks where we're from and where we're headed, taking my information. I am obviously harmless, and perhaps seem a little resigned to my fate. The guy takes pity and gives me a warning. I'm a little shaken but do my best to maintain whatever cool I still have left.
We finally get over to the Avalanche office, which is really pretty sweet. The publisher and his wife live above it in a loft with a great looking balcony, and it's right in the middle of downtown Alpine. The place seems to have a pretty active arts scene, and there's a college (Sul Ross State) there, so probably a nice gig. Still, even further from everything than Fort Stockton is, which is pretty damned far. The folks we meet up with are nice, we go to a fancy brewery, where I drink Lone Star instead of the homeade stuff, possibly offending the waitress. A guy comes in and plays the bagpipes while I eat my hamburger. Alpine wants too badly to be 'weird,' I'm concluding. Still, the burger was alright and the company is nice.
We walk around a bit, seeing some tortillas with pictures of dead rock stars on them at one gallery (Jimi Hendrix, John Lennon, Janis Joplin, etc) and searching for beer. We wind up at a bar with green tinted windows. I remark that it's like being inside a Heineken bottle. We head outside, I drink a couple more Lone Stars (only 2- I had to drive back) and we talk. The publisher at Alpine knows a friend of my family, and tells a bunch of stories about when he worked with my acquiantance. The best involves a press man named Lee, I think, who gave his fighting cocks speed and equipped their talons with razors.
We walk back to the office/loft and say our goodbyes. The drive home goes by easily enough; I'm very careful to adhere to the speed limit, actually going about 60 when I could've gone a bit faster. I'm also very careful to watch for rabbits and everything else scurrying across the darkened road. My boss is leaving soon and that's unfortunate, because we get along well and he's a cool, relaxed guy. I'm alerted to having a LOW FUEL LEVEL by the time we make it back to town. I drop my boss off, and find the house empty when I arrive. Lights are on throughout, but as usual, that means exactly nothing. Two beers still in the fridge; I grab one, put on a record and set about to recording the whole thing. What a night.
On the TV, Sarah Michelle Gellar is about to be hacked to pieces, it looks like. "The Murder Mystery" on the stereo - how appropriate. Earlier, "I'm Set Free" synched up with the aforementioned SMG kicking her way out of the back of a police car after the cop got gutted. What looked like chocolate syrup oozed out of his mouth.
I have an empty gas tank and need to replace my rear right tire. I have one more beer in the fridge, and I am probably going to drink it. I am not sure if I will be invited to church tomorrow. It's beginning to look like Freddie Prinze Jr. is the killer. This movie sucks. If there's a moral to this story it is this:
Beware chickens on speed.
FATHER'S DAY 2005
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