The Great State of Texas is a wonderful place for gun enthusiasts. There are plenty of places to shoot, and no one looks at you funny when you talk about your shotgun or carry a few boxes of shells up in your elevator. That said, for all of Texas’ ruggedness, they do not like the rain. Now, in most places – and New York is no exception – foul weather can slow things down a bit. You need only see the panic-stricken faces of commuters ascending from the subway desperately trying to open their umbrellas before clearing out of the way of the hundreds of people on the stairway behind them to know that people don’t like the rain.
Maybe it’s a primitive thing, the sky is falling and all that, but unless you’re worried your going to ruin your leather shoes, please remember that rain is just water. And check the weather if your so concerned about your fancy loafers!
I drove to Dick’s Sporting Goods yesterday to buy some shells so I could do some skeet-shooting in the afternoon. Dick’s had a pretty good sale going on, so I stocked up.
I hope no one rear-ends the car...
All those little pellets in all those shells add up to a lot of weight. I guess it is lead, after all. With a trunkful of ordnance, I took off for Elm Fork, thinking that the overcast sky and intermittent rain would mean an empty skeet field for me.
I was right.
Sweet Ride.
They were closed.
As a result of the weather! Skeet is meant to simulate hunting. Where you’re outside. In the elements.
The nice young lady at the desk said that the machines would break the clays in the rain anyway. Well, that’s just shoddy workmanship, in my opinion. The machines are housed in, well, “houses”. Call me old-fashioned, but I thought houses have roofs. I’m a regular Frank Lloyd Wright. Anyway, maybe all the other Texans knew that this place would be closed and it’s my fault for not calling ahead, but I still don’t understand what the problem is. It’s just a little rain. Skin is waterproof. Not that I suggest shooting naked.
As a Yankee, there are plenty of things that I love about the South, namely the decent weather, Dr. Pepper, and all the nice cars. However, I often forget that Great State of Texas is, indeed, in the ‘South,’ even if it’s not really ‘the South’. (Nor is the Great State of Texas the West, nor the Midwest. Being as large as it is, it touches on so many regions of our fine country.) Being of a more southerly position than so many states, let’s just agree that Texas is South, if not ‘The South.’
The distinction of the one is more important than the clarification between the two. Forgetting that we are way down on the latitude, I neglected one all-important facet of living below the Mason-Dixon: Waffle House.
God, I love Waffle House.
Manna
Really, just about anyone who has 1) been to a WH and 2) isn’t inclined to have a distinct amount of scorn for plastic picture menus and bolted-down seating loves Waffle House (NB: most people’s moms do not fit into either category).
Be an All-Star
What’s not to love? The coffee is pretty decent, the waffles really are good, and the price is always right. I bring this up since I recently had my older brother to stay for the weekend. Being my brother, he was eager to do things like eat BBQ, go to a hockey game, watch football, drink beer, and eat unhealthy breakfast foods. We did all of these.
However, our first brunch was not at Waffle House, but at Dallas’ own Pancake House. Apparently, it’s actually Oregon’s own Pancake House, but that’s not the point. The point is I’d never heard of Pancake House before. I’m from New York City where brunch consists of rolled up hundred dollar bills, topped with hollandaise and sprinkled with gold leaf. And by that, of course I mean a bagel with cream cheese. Or, depending on the line and the depth of the hangover, bacon, egg, and cheese on a kaiser roll.
Pancake house does make some mean pancakes; I had the buckwheat. And an omelet. And most of a waffle. And about 47 cups of good coffee. Really, the key to brunch for me is not hair-of-the-dog mimosas or bloodies – in fact, I seldom drink at brunch. Drinking, for me, is really a lunchtime thing. The key is cups of good coffee and cold water, both kept full. Service should be swift, but not too sloppy. I’m not looking for white aprons, but I don’t want white toast if I ask for wheat, damn it. Pancake House succeeded on all fronts, and the cost was low. Honestly, I don’t know how all the servers were in such good moods. Oh wait, yes I do: because they weren’t as hungover as we were. Seriously, Texas is now out of Shiner Bock.
Anyway, as I was driving my brother to airport, we decided to stop off at Waffle House on the way. There are several in Big D, but we stopped at the one just off 183 en route to DFW. It is a small, truck-stop version of WH. There are only booths and a counter – no tables and chairs like the many Waffle Houses I’ve sampled along 95. Service was, as always, prompt. It was also friendly. I could have done without the excessively hirsute arm of the server, but she was still very friendly.
So what’s the point? Is there really a contest between Chez Waffle and Chez Pancake? Most Southerners might say no. Certainly, most Easterners would say no, and have been telling me so all week. According to PH’s map, there are locations all up and down the Eastern seaboard, from New York to Florida. Meanwhile, none of the states bordering the Great State of Texas have a Pancake House. Once again, this place is a bastion of wisdom and culinary delights.
For all you loyal fans (both of you) of the Dallas Yankee, I must apologize for the extended holiday hiatus. I spent a few weeks away from Big D, followed by three more weeks in NYC, being more Yankee than Dallas. Over this time, I have learned some things:
1. I love New York.
2. It gets cold in Dallas.
3. It gets warm in Dallas.
4. The W Hotel Dallas has a helipad.
Now, some of these may not seem like epiphanies of any kind, but yesterday as I sat at my desk, a helicopter circled overhead and crashed into the W Hotel. OK, that’s a lie – it landed on the W. But, if you didn’t know there was a helipad up there, you might be confused – Unfrozen Caveman Lawyer-style.
Anyway, here’s a pic of the approach.
I’m not sure who was so special that they couldn’t take the elevator like everyone else, but watching a helicopter land on a building is awesome. Don’t ask me why. Also, the work ‘helipad’ is pretty sweet, too, let’s be honest. It’s like when Chinooks used to transport people to the Twin Towers, like in Coogan’s Bluff. Kinda.
More NBA. My friend scored some corporate tickets to see the Mavs play the Suns. A chance to see Steve Nash play was enticing enough, as were the third row tickets. Below is a Blackberry photo of Dirk.
Dirk and co.
This is really the only way to watch basketball. It gives you a sense of how big the players are, and how light he fouls are, in general. This game had a couple of highlights, not including the fact that my friend next to me caught two of the green mini-basketballs that Champ the Nightmare was throwing into the crowd. What makes it more impressive is that he caught one thrown by hand, and another shot from some huge air-powered mortar barrel. Along with a t-shirt cannon, this would make a great addition to the Free Stuff Payload Arsenal.
Holla "WE WANT PRE-NUP!"
Another highlight involved the Mavs Dancers.Yes, they’re lovely and mostly naked, but they’re no DCCs, nor even Ice Girls, for that matter. Nonetheless, the dancing is entertaining. However, right after these proud performers went out for the first time, the music start playing Gold Digger. That was a poor programming choice.
And remember our old friends the blimps? While I was desperately searching the rafters for the sextoy/burrito, the dog phallus/hot chili flew overhead and dropped a coupon into the row in front of me. Most people would wade through rivers of chum to get free shit, yet the gentlemen in front of us did not notice their coupon.
That ticket better be for a free $7 Miller Lite
It was eventually removed by them, or perhaps some sneaky person fiending Baby Back Ribs.
Finally – and I’m sorry I don’t have a photo of this – the halftime entertainment was Kobra Kai. I shit you not.
Yesterday, Betsy and I took a walk downtown to see if there were any goings-on surrounding the 36th anniversary of the assassination of John F. Kennedy. We headed through the undulating canyons of the central business district, and tried to stay on the sunny side of the street as autumn temperatures arrived and a gentle wind ushered leaves down the cool streets and across lengthening shadows.
The JFK Memorial is a not-quite-stark white box, made of concrete, that rests just about two feet from the ground, seeming to float despite its bulk. The box is cleft on the North and South ends to create two towering halves that surround a slightly sunken central square in which rests the main dais. The dais is, as the information says, too low to be a table, to square to be a tomb, and too large to be merely a commemorative plaque. On the two sides facing the exits to the cenotaph is engraved “JOHN FITZGERALD KENNEDY” and painted gold to catch what light enters from the gaps, or manages to rappel its way down the massif.
This day, the anniversary, we were expecting not fanfare, but perhaps black ribbons or even a flag at half-mast. Maybe the flags were at half-staff, but I didn’t notice. There were few people save for what seemed like a couple of groups of tourists – families – snapping pictures. In fact, as we approached the memorial from the opposite side of the street, a large group of bicyclists, mostly dressed in Victorian garb, went past. The peloton seemed not to notice the memorial. In fact, it turns out it was a “tweed ride” and it’s only connection to Kennedy was that the group was rallying at the Grassy Knoll.
The Memorial was quiet, as I said, and a few small bouquets seemed lackadaisically placed atop the marble slab, along with a smattering of coins that gave it the air of a wishing well or busker’s hat. Two women, reading the information and inscriptions on the north side suddenly came to the realization that today was, in fact, the day. They seemed surprised.
Dallas, it seems, still bears a heavy weight. Downtown has some elegant buildings, but there is a certain silence and seediness. If not seediness, there is a stillness that exists downtown like a moment frozen in time. Like that gunshot was a shutter release, forever cementing Dallas in a foggy void, like a grainy photo. That vacuity was never more evident that yesterday. A 1965 Mustang parked nearby seemed to further the notion that nearly 50 years hadn’t elapsed in this city.
The city is trying to overcome the stigma that I think is attached to it. It bears a heavy cross and I think that there is an intentional lack of publicity around the anniversary. Perhaps we came too late in the day. The Observer claims there were ’scores’ of tourists. The Sixth Floor Museum seemed to have a small crowd outside, but was by no means scores of people. The Cowboys game had ended so there wasn’t really a reason for people not to be outside.
Maybe, much like Ground Zero in New York City has become hallowed ground, yet ground that many New Yorkers feel too gutted to visit regularly, the JFK Memorial is still too haunting for some.
The wonders of the Great State of Texas really never cease to amaze me. With its burgeoning arts scene, an increasing number of great restaurants and bars, and more money to spend on nice cars than people really know what to do with, Dallas in particular is lovely yet perplexing. Why am I waxing philosophical about TGSoT under the header “Dallas Stampede”? I’ll get there.
As you may know, the AAC is just a short walk from my front door. So far, I have been there to see a couple of hockey games and a basketball game. Dallas is a great sports town, and I’ve enjoyed going to the games. The venue itself is well-appointed and comfortable, and care has been taken to make sure that the views from the seats are generally decent. This past weekend, I went to the AAC for a wholly different event: the rodeo.
My two friends and I arrived about 40 minutes late (due to the car-buying process taking a while. I am now mobile in this city). We got some beer and peanuts and headed to the upper ring where our tickets granted us general admission. We found seats on just above the chutes and were surprised to see sheep out on the dirt. The sheep were being wrangled by a collie. The collie was being ridden by a monkey. Whiplash the Cowboy Monkey.
If you’re anything like me – that is, easily amused – this is an awesome prospect. Now, the dog was doing all the work, and I’m pretty sure ol’ Whiplash was just hanging on for dear monkey life. The act was winding down and the announcer told us about the finale. Whiplash had already wrangled the five sheep into a small rope circle. He was now going to corral them behind their small metal trailer. Each sheep then goes up a ramp onto the top of the hitch, where they would then drop down through a door in the trailer roof and be driven off to thunderous applause.
Whiplash, in his red suit and white, managed to get the sheep toward the trailer. A farmhand had setup the ramp and the sheep, simple as they are started up it as Whiplash and his mount directed them. The ramp is narrow and the sheep have to go one at a time. The first one made it up and dropped into the trailer as the second was close behind. As the third sheep charged up it, the ramp came off and the poor animal smacked headlong into the back of the trailer while the following sheep careened into the back of her and they all panicked. The collie managed to get them all up as the ramp was reset, but it made for some interesting rodeo-ing.
Next up was some saddle- and bareback-bronc riding. On the bucking bronco, the rider must continually spur the shoulders of the horse, requiring the cowboy to lean way back. Most of the riders wear a strange neck guard to prevent whiplash as they lie across the back of the horse. It gives them the appearance of someone about to sleep on an airplane.
After the bronc events (which, truthfully, don’t hold a candle to bull-riding) was something called “mutton busting”. Mutton busting basically serves to answer the question “How the fuck do you get into riding wild animals for a living?” In mutton busting, children (most of whom seem to be the sons and daughters of cowboys), don vests and hockey helmets, grab onto a sheep, and hold on for dear life. They are scored quickly over the PA, though it’s more for them to get a sense of accomplishment for not having died at the hands of a reasonably stupid animal. As the event progresses, the sheep collect near a handler at the far end of the rodeo floor once they have spilled their rider. So, after a few rounds, there are several sheep standing together. They instinctively go to one another, so as the flock grows, the released sheep-with-rider start careening towards the others, often with hilarious results as the sheep with the human baggage often crashes into the others or hits the brakes, sending the youngster flying. I have to say, the kids loved it. Not a tear was shed.
The winner was a little red-headed kid who, after hanging on past the buzzer, got bucked off and tumbled over onto his back. He lay still for a moment while we all thought he was hurt. Then, he started doing snow-angels in the dirt. Dirt-angels. The kid couldn’t have been more than 7 or 8 and there he was, showboating for the crowd of thousands. Below is a video of some mutton bustin, courtesy of YouTube user jkewish.
Finally, we got to the bull-riding. I went to the PBR event at MSG this past winter with my brothers and we vowed to go every chance we could. Bull-riding is so much better than bronco because, well, the chances of death are far higher. Bulls are bigger, meaner, and better equipped to perforate humans.
This particular bull-riding was pretty quiet. Only one cowboy managed to stay put for eight seconds in the final round. However, one cowboy got tossed pretty soon out of the gate and the rodeo clowns swooped in (sadly, the clowns were not dressed as clowns). As the bull neared the downed rider, one of the clowns tried to direct the beast away. However, being a one-ton animal with a rope around its manhood, it was not having any of that. It lowered its head and got under the poor clown, lifting him. As he was now mostly prone across the bull’s head, the clown was pretty helpless. While kicking the now-fetal-positioned rider, the bull then threw the clown up in the air.
Have you ever seen Michael Jordan dunk in slow-motion? It’s amazing. Just when you think he’s going to start his descent back to earth, he just keeps elevating. Rising and rising. That’s what this was like. This poor bastard was easily eight feet in the air. On the jumbotron replay, he went OUT OF THE FRAME. Had I been down on the dirt and not messing my shorts, I could have walked right underneath his airborne self and passed by untouched. The clown landed fairly unpleasantly on his side. I think he was mostly winded, but he basically just fell nearly ten feet squarely on his ribcage. He walked away and wasn’t gored, so it was the highlight of the night.
$30 got me:
one (1) sheep crash
about seven (7) children falling off sheep, with apparent parental consent
As yesterday was Veterans Day, I headed downtown to watch the parade. It was especially moving to be in Dallas just days after the Ft. Hood massacre – there were than a couple of units in the parade from Hood. I Took some photos but as my digital remains broken, I only had my K1000, so we’ll have to wait about four years for me to develop, scan, and upload those shots. Here is a photo gallery.
The parade started at City Hall at 11am. There was a flyover by three T38s/F5s to start the ceremony. There was also a finger-four flyover by four prop-wing planes. I’m not sure what they were but they were round-tipped and straight-winged (looked like P-40s maybe). As they sped over the skyline, one trailed smoke, though there was no ‘fallen flier’ formation. Fighters are awesome.
There were a lot of high school marching bands, almost all of which had some sort of JROTC unit as well. A few marched crisply and in-step, but most seemed comprised mostly of kids who were unsure of whether they wanted to be there. It is always moving to me to see the old WWII vets. There are fewer and fewer every year and while some are still very active and with it, so to speak, many more seem frail and sad. However, it is reassuring to see people collect on the sidewalks on a Wednesday to wave, and to cheer, and to actually yell “thank you” to many of the older vets.
There was also a formation of the All-American Cowgirl Chicks and a pick-up truck pulling the Stars’ Ice Girls on inline skates which seemed to be just popular amongst the fans as many of the military vehicles.
A large float that said “We Support Our Troops” along hte side carried an enormous Liberty Bell replica. The sign in front said “Let Freedom Ring”. Fine, but also on the float, flanking the bell fore and aft, facing the crownd were two huge replicas of the 10 commandment tablets. Romans 8:28-31. Hm. Interesting. Nice. Doesn’t sound at all like radical Islam.
There were a few nice old cars, including an array of Corvettes – past and present – at the beginning of the parade. I love to see the older vets in those fancy cars, I think they must get a kick out of it. Anyway, here’s to our vets, past and present and even future.
A friend was kind enough to invite us to his company’s luxury box seats to watch the Mavs-Raptors game. Luxury box seats are usually pretty sweet and, aside from the free stuff inside, the boxes at the AAC are good. However, it can be hard to focus on the game in one of these things as only a few seats look out, and there are so many screens inside that you are more inclined to watch on TV than actually at the court.
Now, I’ll admit that I am a bigger hockey fan than basketball fan but, seriously, what the F is up with the NBA?
In the NHL, there are TV timeouts as there are in every American sport. In fact, as there are in every sport, European soccer notwithstanding. In the NHL, there are two intermissions, during which kids skate on the ice and fans who seem never to have seen a hockey stick try to score a goal from the red line.
The AAC is also a bit of a travesty. During the intermissions at Stars games, small blimps are released from the rafters to rain down coupons on the crowd. There are three advertorial dirigibles: A giant red chili, from Chili’s. A giant burrito, from Chipotle. And a blue blimp from some diamond-seller.
The giant chili drops coupons for what I can only imagine is some sort of heart-stoppingly rich and/or large platter of some kind of fried food. It also looks more than a little like a dog phallus.
The giant burrito is supposed to resemble a Chipotle burrito wrapped in foil. It looks more like a suppository, or possibly, a Steely Dan/Silk Torpedo.
Image (C) 1975 Swan Song
On top of that, at every TV timeout, the dancers come out, as do Champ, the Mavs main mascot, and Mavs Man. Champ is a large blue-headed horse-man that is equal parts Muppet and Nick Bottom. Mavs Man is a terrible amalgamation of a human, a basketball, and a kabuki mask. Together, this nightmarish duo eats up long lapses in action with trampoline-assisted dunks and various fan-participation inanity.
I hope I wake up soon.
Photo (C) 2009, Dallas Mavericks
The one thing I’ll give this horrific pair is that they are spot-on with the t-shirt gun. People LOVE free t-shirts. We should stop building drones and M4s and just ship t-shirt cannons to our troops. A few weeks of lobbing cheap, NBA-logo t’s into caves and the Taliban will be just fine. In case anyone is wondering what to get me for a present, a custom air cannon would be sweet.
What I can’t understand about the NBA, aside from the way the refs seem to call fouls to suit their whims, is the way that A.) Music blares during play (including some John Cougar. How many NBA players, whose average age is probably 23, actually listen to Mellancamp?), and B.) People sit right on the floor. Case in point, the way Bron slapped Jay-Z five during the Knicks game last week. Check out this quote from WCBSTV.com: “James said he was able to congratulate a few of the [Yankees] players during the game.” During the game? I hope this means at some break in the action, but the fact that Bron was able to high-five Jay-Z while running back on D, makes me think otherwise.
Is this And One? Turn the music off, unless it’s the organ playing the “defense” cheer or something. I love BronBron, and of course, the Yanks, but play the game. I don’t see some hockey player backchecking and waving to someone behind the boards. Play the game!
Anyway, the Mavs tore the Raptors apart, and Dirk put on a show, dropping 29 in a 129-101 win.
The beetle has not returned since yesterday. A friend of mine emailed to say it was a cricket. He is wrong. He’s too crazy looking (the beetle, not my friend). I actually saw some sort of grasshopper downtown a few weeks ago and was taken aback. One, because it was in the CBD; two, because he was big; three, I didn’t know arthropods were big Christian Lit readers. This guy was repeatedly jumping against the window of a Christian bookstore.
Also, my six-legged friend out on the terrace is not a cricket; crickets are more oblong and only their back legs arch. this guy has broad shoulders, a distinctively separate head, and crazy legs. If you look at the scientific classification of both beetles and crickets, they diverge after Class. I was never very good at science of any kind, so let’s hear something from someone with at least a high-passing grade in high school biology. I’m sure he’s some sort of long-horned beetle. He was back yesterday but I don’t see him this morning.
Also, I’ve added some photos from the Robert Randolph show. Check out the Easter Bunny playing guitar, and a (slightly edited) pic of our costumes. Yesterday’s post has a Yankees poll, and we still don’t have a car. However, I went back to Elm Fork with my Yankees-fan neighbor and I managed to put up a 22 on the skeet range. Still not above the 23 average I’d like, but it’s improvement. We’re going back with his wife’s sister and brother-in-law next week, so I’ll be sure to put up a 24.
This post will seem bland without an image, so here’s another shot of our lush hanging garden in the ruddy, waning light of an autumnal sunset.
