On re-hashing the past...
Summer '09: it was the fastest of times, it was the most furious of times...
I last updated on an evening in the middle of May, less than twenty-four hours after Mike Sage and Jacky-Boy left me alone at my mother's house, where I'd secured a three-month hiatus from Georgia. The decision to spend the summer in San Antonio had been arrived upon months earlier; last summer, thanks to the stipulations of my graduate assistantship, I'd been forced to remain in Milledgeville, a rather shitty turn of events that saw me enduring twelve weeks of abject boredom and, at times, soul-crushing loneliness. I did not want to do that again. And so, beginning over the Christmas holidays and finalized during spring break, my mother and I struck a deal: I could reside in her home with free room and board so long as I a) secured part-time employment and b) did not intend to host some never-ending parade of drunken pool parties. It all sounded fine to me.
But theory and practice, it turns out, are two different things, and after six days of fun in Baton Rouge and then a few more with Sage, Jack and Lauren in San Antonio, I found myself alone and faced with the grim reality of getting back to work--that is, writing, finding a job and, generally, acting like a grownup. The transition was rough. The summer I'd for months envisioned as a relaxing getaway from grad-school suddenly seemed far less glamourous. Instead of reclining poolside, snacking on brie and sipping daiquiris, I was poring over my bank statement and concluding that, since I still had rent to pay in Milledgeville, there was absolutely no way I'd have much money for anything. Twelve weeks at home struck me then as long and hot and impossible. I worried all the time. Then I quit smoking and felt crazy. Then I tried to find a job, but all my connections fell through. Then my mother, who had also quit smoking and was equally crazy, very abruptly leveed an ultimatum on me that said if I did not land a job within two weeks, I could pack my bags and head on out of town. Then, because everything had gone so wrong so fast, and my head felt like it was going to burst, I had a bit of an episode (read: tantrum), during which I shouted some less than kind words at my mother. Then we coexisted awkwardly for a number of days and I began to hatch a ridiculous plan to move to Baton Rouge, live in the Pike House and work at the Chimes.
And so, the early stages of summer '09 were a real shit storm. But then, inexplicably, everything worked itself out. My mom and I got past the initial nicotine DTs, which in turn helped us to patch things up and let her see that getting a job wasn't going to be as easy as either of us had imagined. We had some nice chats and things again seemed right. I re-devoted myself to running and writing and I began to take two long walks a day--one before sunrise, another after dinner. My father sent me some money and I was able to take a deep breath and relax. It was as if some deity had swooped down from the heavens and pressed life's 'reset' button. And so this was the foundation for the summer of 2009, a summer that beat the odds and ultimately became one of my life's all-time bests. Here now, divvied into subsections and supplemented with photos, is how it all played out.
A Wedding in New Orleans: Dicks in Suits
I arrived in New Orleans before noon on Friday, June 5th. Will Dunn, hair down to his shoulders, and his date, Katherine, picked me up and immediately presented me with an oversized daiquiri, which I downed on our way to Pier 1. There, the three of us patrolled the aisles, sifting through a bunch a schlock in hopes of finding a gift for Benny and Megan that was as cheap as it was charming. At last, we came upon an enormous wooden giraffe and knew we'd struck gold. That afternoon, Dunn and I drank beer and waited as Mike, Sam and Conway came into town, and then, after dinner, we headed over to a pool/keg party in Metairie, where Sage and I won what was perhaps the most impressive game of beer pong I'd ever witnessed. Toward the end of the evening, Dunn's roommate Jacques jokingly threw me into the swimming pool, ruining my phone and jamming the shit out of my right ring finger.
The next morning, after breakfast and putting on our suits, Dunn and I did our best to wrap the giraffe (which stood over six feet tall), and then we all took taxis to St. Louis cathedral. Benny and Megan walked in as fiances and walked out husband and wife, and then we--that is, the hundreds of guests--followed them in a second-line parade which, amid the brassy call of New Orleans jazz and the hustle of the French Quarter on a Saturday, met its terminus in the Royal Sonesta's grand ballroom, where, in a grand gesture, the doors swung open to reveal enough good food and booze to sate everyone there ten times over.
And so we ate too much, drank too much, danced a bit and, best of all, were allowed to present our gift on stage and in front of the entire guest list. Needless to say, it was a hit with everyone, particularly Benny, who, upon unwrapping the giraffe, proceeded to hoist it over his head and run laps around the ballroom. After the celebration came to a close, Sage and I headed to an upstairs suite and joined a dozen or so others for the post-reception party. From what I remember, a mini-fridge was opened and emptied, and, in the cab back to Dunn's uptown apartment, Sage and I pounded mouthfuls of warm vodka and gin. That night, not for the time ever, but for the first time in years, I passed out in formal attire. The next morning was all coffee and chit-chat and we wrapped up the trip with a lunch at one of the best Po-boy places I've ever encountered. The wedding was phenomenal and, as ever, a weekend in New Orleans solidified my desire to live there sometime in the not-too-distant future.
A Weekend in Longview: Toasting a Half-Century of Success with a Cool Glass of "Texas Piss"
Early in June, I received a surprise phone call from Jason, who said that he and his girlfriend, Alison, were flying into east Texas for his mother's fiftieth birthday. Thanks to our being former roommates, I've been privileged to know Jason's family for the better part of a half decade, and I feel good saying that the Walkers are a top-notch clan of people. Thus, that I would indeed make the trip to Longview was a forgone conclusion. In the weeks between Jason's invitation and the actual event, the deal was sweetened by the last-minute addition of Mike Sage, who, along with little Jessica Walker, made the trip from Baton Rouge.
I arrived in Longview just as the party was getting underway, and found myself overwhelmed by a slew of aunts and uncles and cousins, all of whom were rushing about the house, ensuring that everything was in its right place before the night got going. Sage and I helped with prep work as much as we could and then changed into our bathing suits and began drinking beers. The party itself was a lot of fun, and Jason's mother was obviously having a great time. Apart from the good food and drink, the evening's highlight was a thorough slideshow that, paired with delightful music, guided everyone though some of the more poignant moments--marriage, kids, family vacations--that transpire in a half-century's worth of living. People cried. I was moved. But, more so, as I sat there in the living room, brimming with the Walker's loved ones, I was reminded how much I've always wished to have a larger family. But that's another story. Either way, it felt good to be included in a moment like that.
The next day, hungover and tired, we ate some lunch and then decided that the only activity we could muster that afternoon was to swim and drink beer. And that's all we did. And that was all we needed to do. We called it an early night and, upon waking the following morning, I dressed, gave everyone a big hug and made the long and somewhat lonesome drive back to San Antonio. The weekend was a success for a number of reasons, but, most of all, it was good to see and hang out with Jason. Despite being one of my best friends from college, he and I haven't done the best job keeping up with one another, and, thanks to his living in California, our chances to be near one another are few and far between. Anyhow, he was looking healthy and happy, which did my heart good.
A Long Weekend in Austin and the TX Hill Country: Drinking, Dancing, the Great Outdoors!
Over the course of the summer, I'd say I spent five or six weekends in Austin. This is, of course, thanks to limitless benevolence of Lauren and Jacky-boy, whose fold-out couch by summer's end felt something like a second home. Each visit was a great time, but because this entry is already shaping up to be longer than anyone would ever care to read, I'll discuss one weekend in particular.
I drove up to Austin on a Wednesday afternoon. That night, after Jack and I got lost running on a North-side greenbelt, he, Lauren and I ate dinner, had margaritas and then headed downtown, where, inside at Stubb's, we met up with Ian, Kevin and Elizabeth and saw a band called Speak. (This also happened to be the day that Michael Jackson died.) The band put on one hell of a show, and I was especially impressed by the lead singer, whose vocal range, I'm sure, will one day make him famous. Over the next few days there was swimming, drinking, a dinner date with an old friend from LSU in Spain, and a delightful meal at Veggie Heaven, about which I'd heard great things for years but had somehow never visited. On Saturday afternoon, after a day's worth of errand-running and money-spending, Lauren, Jack, Tarin, Laura and I loaded up two cars with rations, liquor, and beer and made the 45-minute drive south on I-35 to the Gately ranch. Upon arriving, we discovered that the party, which was meant to celebrate a friend of a friend's birthday, already involved a keg of Shiner, and the precedent for the evening was set. Along with a few other crazy happenings (which I'll detail later in this post) the mayhem that ensued at the Gately ranch was among the summer's wildest fun. It was, in a single word, primal. Here's what I mean: The night was based around an open-mic stage, where any partygoer could perform any way their heart desired. Some people read poetry, some people told jokes--most people, however, played rock and roll. And so, fueled by live music, pot, and lots and lots of beer, we danced, drunk as shit, well into the night. While I could write an entire essay on why this night was ridiculous and fun and wild, I'll keep it short. Jack went crazy--he sang and rapped and played guitar and danced--all in a way that can only be described as God-like. I have known and been close as can be with this man for years and years and never have I seen him so drunk and yet so deeply in his element, and being afforded the chance to see him in such a state seems to me one of the summer's greatest gifts. Elizabeth and Lauren have posted absolutely wonderful photo albums on Facebook. If you have the means, I suggest you check them out. All in all, the ranch party was one of the best nights of the summer and, if pressed, I'd say it ranks among my top twenty all-time nights out (which, in and of itself, would make for a pretty interesting update).
The Fourth of July: Mimosas and Poolside Patriotism
Early on the evening of July 3rd, my old friend Tal phoned and said he was entertaining at his ranch house, a delightful spot in the Texas Hill Country, just south of Blanco. Though I was tired, having consumed a large plate of fish tacos and two surprisingly potent margaritas at Los Barrios, I took a quick, revitalizing swim, packed a weekend bag, gassed up the Accord and made the forty-five minute drive north on 281. Once I arrived, the party was in full-swing, and the guest list included Charles, Alex, and Sara, three people with whom I once hung out regularly, but, since graduating from college, I haven't kept up with at all. It was good to see them and, as is typically the case, as far as old friends are concerned, everyone picked up right where we'd left off. Tal blended up excellent margaritas, Charles mixed mint juleps, and everyone took shots while hopping in and out of the pool. It was pretty great.
The following morning, after coffee and a swim, we all headed in to Canyon Lake for lunch and to gather Fourth of July supplies. The plans for the day involved drinking and swimming at Tal's, followed by more drinking and more swimming at the Riverhouse Landsmen, where, in years past, Caroline has hosted some memorable get-togethers. And so we all floated about in Tal's pool, sipping ice-cold mimosas and catching up. It was refreshing to see Tal and Charles, to get away from San Antonio and be in the company of old, casual buddies, and, if pressed, I'd say that this was the point of summer '09 when I felt most relaxed. (This is also true because I'd finished a pretty solid short story that same week.) After a few hours, we piled into Charles's car and drove twenty minutes or so to Caroline's, where, among friends I hadn't seen in a long time (most notably George and Paige B.), the place was overrun with guests of all ages--grey-haired businessmen, college freshmen, and roughly a dozen twenty-somethings. We set up camp chairs in the ankle-deep waters of the river banks, drank a lot of cheap beer, smoked and had a fun time. By sunset, a crowd of Matthew's nineteen-year-old pals arrived, and the next few hours involved dancing, yucking it up with Zander (who appeared out of nowhere) and, generally, feeling a bit old. Around midnight, when we'd realized that there'd be no room to sleep at the riverhouse, Tal's parents very graciously picked us up and returned us to the ranch. The rest is all blackout. The next morning, bewildered and hungover, I thanked my hosts, got into my car and somehow made it home.
A Trip to Corpus Christi: My Romantic Weekend with Patty-Cakes
Despite the fact that Harlingen and San Antonio are separated by only a three-hundred miles, by late-July it seemed as though Cakes and I would miss any chance to hang out together in Texas. Then, during one of our bi-monthly phone chats, we found ourselves discussing how nice it'd be to take a beach getaway. Then we realized that Corpus Christi was our halfway point. Then Cakes, because he's a working man and can afford to make crazy offers, made the crazy offer of paying for a hotel room. Then I, along with my mother's aid, scoured the Internet for hotels, of which, on such short notice, there were very few. Then we found one and the deal was sealed.
I arrived at the Quality Inn about fifteen minutes before Cakes, and as I gazed up at the hotel's salt-worn, pinkish walls, I knew that the weekend would surely see us acting like maniacs. Of all my friends, many of whom are wild drunks, Cakes is undoubtedly the wildest, and we spent a good part of 2003-2007 pushing each other to our breaking points. Cakes showed up and, after we'd scoped out the area (we stopped at one of about fifteen schlock stores and each bought brightly-colored baseball caps), Cakes suggested we eschew dinner and get to drinking, a decision that, while hilarious, I knew I'd come to regret. We drank Lone Stars and caught up at some dive bar, then headed down the road to a restaurant where we could sit outside and have more beers. There, over a couple of Red Stripes, a very large, very homeless-looking dude sauntered our way and began engaging us in conversation. At first, Cakes and I were dead sure that this guy was a hobo, just waiting until the time was right to start hitting us up for cash, but, in the end, he was a nice guy named Fred, who turned out to be a musician that happened to be playing at that same restaurant. So Cakes and I, both quite drunk at this point, ordered margaritas and sat down to watch. Fred's act was just him and an acoustic guitar, and once he started his set with soft variations on the A-sides of Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band, I knew we were in for a treat. He had the voice of an angel, and though he played to a room that was all but empty, those who actually listened were rewarded with a really beautiful performance. Everything came to a head when he closed with the Band's "The Weight," and asked Cakes and I to join him for the chorus's three-part harmony. As we left, Fred embraced us and loaded us up with free CDs. We then headed back to the hotel, threw shit around and pounded bourbon until going for a late-night swim sounded like a reasonable idea. After hopping into the closed and gated pool, we swam around and yelled until we grew bored and decided to go back to bar where, hours earlier and in a far saner state of mind, our night began. We got there, had drinks and then, rather unexpectedly, the bartender cut me off. Then everything faded into black; however, I do remember Cakes using a pair of scissors he'd borrowed from the front desk to cut the top off of his recently-purchased hat, thus turning it into a visor. Also, at some point (perhaps right after we each peed on the hotel's front sign) we wandered into some other hotel, where, while inexplicably riding in the elevator, we found ourselves next to a pizza delivery guy and tried to convince him to give us all his pizzas. (He declined.)
The next morning, after coffee and breakfast tacos, we spent a few hours in the hotel room, drinking beers and having what I can only think to call a powerhouse nostalgia session, during which years and years of LSU memories we re-hashed at length and in detail. Of our group of friends, Cakes and I have always been the raconteurs, so our back-and-forth was epic and enjoyable, and I felt lucky to have the chance to be with one of my best friends there at the beach. Our conversation carried on throughout the afternoon on the beach and in the pool, and that night we sat on room's porch, drinking giant Andygators and talking about our lives.
The rest of the weekend followed the same pattern. There was beach-going, taco-eating, beer-drinking and belly-laughs aplenty. Overall, the weekend proved to be one of the summer's best, and I can't thank Cakes enough for ponying up the cash for our ramshackle room on the Texas shoreline.
Summer's Last Stand: Austin, BR and the Long Drive Home to Georgia
The week after the beach, I somehow managed to write six hours a day and finish my second short story, thus fulfilling my self-imposed goal of forty summertime thesis pages. Beyond being productive, completing the second story was a good thing in that it freed me up for the weekend of the 24th, or, as I like to think of it, my last hurrah in Texas. On Friday afternoon, I picked up Farley from the airport and the two of us headed straight to Austin, where we met up with Jack, Lauren, Kevin, Elizabeth and Ian to celebrate Jack's twenty-fourth birthday. The evening began with a delightful dinner of Indian food, then we all headed to a neighborhood bar, where, aside from a round of car-bombs courtesy of Lauren, it seemed we'd spend the night in a manner somewhat calm and laid back. Then, after about an hour of reasonable behavior, everyone was bitten by the crazy bug and we decided that, since it was Jack's birthday and all, we'd be fools not to head down to Sixth street. And so we did. Things at first were fine: the bars were crowded, the drinks were strong but overpriced--all in all, everything one might expect from a night out in the trendy part of a trendy city.
Then some bro sucker-punched Farley in the face. This marked the first time I'd ever witnessed a friend being physically harmed, and, much to my surprise, my reaction was to go batshit crazy. As soon as the dude punched Fa, I chucked my Lone Star tallboy and made a beeline to (presumably) try to beat the guy up. Thankfully, my blind rage was held in check by a third party who physically held me back, and by Lauren who somehow managed to talk some sense into me. Then the bartender threw me out. The night ended next door at a club where Farley's mustache made him something of celebrity. By the time two o'clock rolled around, Jacky-boy, who'd been taking birthday shots all night, was beginning to fall apart. Then I blacked out and left with Laura. Then no one else could get a cab and everything became a nightmare, and poor, poor Lauren was forced to deal with everything.
The next morning, hungover beyond belief, we unfathomably tried to stick to our original plans and go tubing. We--that is, Lauren, myself and what at that point was basically Jack's corpse--got into my car, and Farley and Laura followed. As we headed down 35, everything seemed to be fine, and I remember being happy that we'd decided to go ahead with tubing. After some initial tension regarding the night prior, Lauren and I patched things up and some breakfast tacos cured our hangovers. So long as Jack could pull through, I told myself, the day would be a wonderful success. Then Laura's car broke. Then Laura's phone died. Then Lauren and I spent thirty minutes driving around, trying to find Laura's broken car. Then we found it, and despite everything, we resolved to leave her car at a gas station and continue on our comical voyage toward tubing. Then we got to the tubing place and found out that there was a two-hour wait, and, finally, we decided that tubing might not be the best idea. That afternoon, however, never mind it's myriad precursors of doom, ended up being great. Using the beer we'd bought for the river, Jack (whose hangover had at last melted away), Lauren, Fa and I drank and went swimming in their apartment's pool. That night, drunk and worn out, Jack slept while Lauren and I enjoyed a nice conversation on the balcony.
That Sunday, I drove back to San Antonio and headed to Fa's dad's sixtieth birthday celebration. Being able to see Big Fa and Carolyn, who were, for half a decade, like a second set of parents, is always fantastic, but this time was particularly nice, in that the house was packed with aunts and uncles and other members of the Katz/Fuentes team that I hadn't seen together in years. The food was excellent, Moglo made the greatest toast ever ("Sixty more years!"), and afterward everyone went swimming. In short, I was glad to be a part of it. Fa's parents are great people, and I'm always thrilled to see them. That evening, I made my way over to Jack's mother's place, where I again served as the lone, non-blood attendee to a family birthday party. It was good to see Jack's mom, but since I knew the dinner would be my last chance to see Jack and Lauren until Thanksgiving, the meal was bittersweet. After I bid them thanks and farewell, I went over to Farley's, and he and I ended up drunk at a strip club where, among other grotesque sights, we witnessed a fight that left some dude badly beaten and my shirt drenched in his blood. This marked the first time in my life that I've ever dialed 9-1-1. The next night was Fa's last in Texas and, after battling a day-long hangover, he cooked up a great dinner and, later, we went to Bombay's with Forrest. Then, in classic Will and Farley fashion, we stayed up late, drinking bourbon on his front porch, talking about our lives and our futures.
The next few days saw me organizing my stuff as I prepared to egress Texas. Summer was on it's last legs and my nearing Georgia homecoming struck me as impossible. Thankfully, I'd planned a five-day stopover in Baton Rouge to distract me from my return to a real life filled with teaching and grading and schedules and everything else that makes time go so fast. But, before I headed out (in fact, on my final day in San Antonio) I had the extreme pleasure to sit down and have lunch with Katy Lewis. Yes, that's right. I actually had a meal with my old friend, who just so happens to be married to a righteous dude named Derrick. And on top of that, she's going to have a baby, and when I saw her standing there in the parking lot, my heart beat fast with happiness. Another added bonus: Hannah Alberts, who I hadn't seen in years and was just back from a stint in Russia, was also there. It was really, really nice, and all I can think to say to Katy is thanks so much for making it happen, even if it happened on my last day in Texas.
The next morning I woke, went for one last run in my mother's gated community, packed my car and said goodbye to San Antonio. My mom was sad to me go, and I was sad to leave. Although it wasn't perfect, my time living in my mother's home was ultimately an experience I'll remember fondly. I think she and I are closer for it, and, further, it felt good to let her see that I'd done a lot of growing up in the last couple of years. Even though she's a bit crazy, I love my mother, and I'm thankful to have had the chance to reconnect with her over the summertime.
Baton Rouge was, as ever, too much fun. I stayed with Sage at the Pike house, had great dinners over at Hax and Jacky's. One night, we won trivia. Another night, we all passed out on the deck. We played beer-pong, hung out at the Chimes and did everything we used to do when we were younger and life was more carefree. Though the trip was a lot of fun, I can't help but feel that, for whatever reason, I was went overboard with my drinking. Sage, too, was acting crazy. One night, for instance, instead ordering a beer, we each ordered pitchers of beer, a move that, even at the height of my booze life (c. 2006) would've seemed a tad excessive. Anyhow, by the time Wednesday rolled around and I was readying myself to leave, I felt tired and whacked-out and somewhat remorseful about my behavior. But my last night, when Jacky and I cooked dinner for everybody, was rather nice and made up for the previous nonsense.
I woke up at 6 the next morning and drove and drove and drove--drove past Mississippi and Alabama and the endless hills of west Georgia, until, at last I merged onto 49 and zoomed through Jones county and into Milledgeville, where I somehow live and work and try to write short stories.
As soon as I stepped onto my front porch and slid my key into the door, I knew that summer '09 was over, and for that I felt both enlivened and sad. And now, when I look at this place, this funky little town where I've resided since August of 2007, I know that I'm about to leave it, that I'm about be cast again into the unpredictable movements of life.
Other fun facts about the summer: I quit smoking (3 months and counting); I conquered my longstanding fear of interstate driving; thanks to my mother's swimming pool, it's likely that, over the course of ten weeks, I took less than fifteen showers.
This entry only exists because I made myself write it. But I'm glad that I did.
I last updated on an evening in the middle of May, less than twenty-four hours after Mike Sage and Jacky-Boy left me alone at my mother's house, where I'd secured a three-month hiatus from Georgia. The decision to spend the summer in San Antonio had been arrived upon months earlier; last summer, thanks to the stipulations of my graduate assistantship, I'd been forced to remain in Milledgeville, a rather shitty turn of events that saw me enduring twelve weeks of abject boredom and, at times, soul-crushing loneliness. I did not want to do that again. And so, beginning over the Christmas holidays and finalized during spring break, my mother and I struck a deal: I could reside in her home with free room and board so long as I a) secured part-time employment and b) did not intend to host some never-ending parade of drunken pool parties. It all sounded fine to me.
But theory and practice, it turns out, are two different things, and after six days of fun in Baton Rouge and then a few more with Sage, Jack and Lauren in San Antonio, I found myself alone and faced with the grim reality of getting back to work--that is, writing, finding a job and, generally, acting like a grownup. The transition was rough. The summer I'd for months envisioned as a relaxing getaway from grad-school suddenly seemed far less glamourous. Instead of reclining poolside, snacking on brie and sipping daiquiris, I was poring over my bank statement and concluding that, since I still had rent to pay in Milledgeville, there was absolutely no way I'd have much money for anything. Twelve weeks at home struck me then as long and hot and impossible. I worried all the time. Then I quit smoking and felt crazy. Then I tried to find a job, but all my connections fell through. Then my mother, who had also quit smoking and was equally crazy, very abruptly leveed an ultimatum on me that said if I did not land a job within two weeks, I could pack my bags and head on out of town. Then, because everything had gone so wrong so fast, and my head felt like it was going to burst, I had a bit of an episode (read: tantrum), during which I shouted some less than kind words at my mother. Then we coexisted awkwardly for a number of days and I began to hatch a ridiculous plan to move to Baton Rouge, live in the Pike House and work at the Chimes.
And so, the early stages of summer '09 were a real shit storm. But then, inexplicably, everything worked itself out. My mom and I got past the initial nicotine DTs, which in turn helped us to patch things up and let her see that getting a job wasn't going to be as easy as either of us had imagined. We had some nice chats and things again seemed right. I re-devoted myself to running and writing and I began to take two long walks a day--one before sunrise, another after dinner. My father sent me some money and I was able to take a deep breath and relax. It was as if some deity had swooped down from the heavens and pressed life's 'reset' button. And so this was the foundation for the summer of 2009, a summer that beat the odds and ultimately became one of my life's all-time bests. Here now, divvied into subsections and supplemented with photos, is how it all played out.
A Wedding in New Orleans: Dicks in Suits
I arrived in New Orleans before noon on Friday, June 5th. Will Dunn, hair down to his shoulders, and his date, Katherine, picked me up and immediately presented me with an oversized daiquiri, which I downed on our way to Pier 1. There, the three of us patrolled the aisles, sifting through a bunch a schlock in hopes of finding a gift for Benny and Megan that was as cheap as it was charming. At last, we came upon an enormous wooden giraffe and knew we'd struck gold. That afternoon, Dunn and I drank beer and waited as Mike, Sam and Conway came into town, and then, after dinner, we headed over to a pool/keg party in Metairie, where Sage and I won what was perhaps the most impressive game of beer pong I'd ever witnessed. Toward the end of the evening, Dunn's roommate Jacques jokingly threw me into the swimming pool, ruining my phone and jamming the shit out of my right ring finger.
The next morning, after breakfast and putting on our suits, Dunn and I did our best to wrap the giraffe (which stood over six feet tall), and then we all took taxis to St. Louis cathedral. Benny and Megan walked in as fiances and walked out husband and wife, and then we--that is, the hundreds of guests--followed them in a second-line parade which, amid the brassy call of New Orleans jazz and the hustle of the French Quarter on a Saturday, met its terminus in the Royal Sonesta's grand ballroom, where, in a grand gesture, the doors swung open to reveal enough good food and booze to sate everyone there ten times over.
And so we ate too much, drank too much, danced a bit and, best of all, were allowed to present our gift on stage and in front of the entire guest list. Needless to say, it was a hit with everyone, particularly Benny, who, upon unwrapping the giraffe, proceeded to hoist it over his head and run laps around the ballroom. After the celebration came to a close, Sage and I headed to an upstairs suite and joined a dozen or so others for the post-reception party. From what I remember, a mini-fridge was opened and emptied, and, in the cab back to Dunn's uptown apartment, Sage and I pounded mouthfuls of warm vodka and gin. That night, not for the time ever, but for the first time in years, I passed out in formal attire. The next morning was all coffee and chit-chat and we wrapped up the trip with a lunch at one of the best Po-boy places I've ever encountered. The wedding was phenomenal and, as ever, a weekend in New Orleans solidified my desire to live there sometime in the not-too-distant future.
A Weekend in Longview: Toasting a Half-Century of Success with a Cool Glass of "Texas Piss"
Early in June, I received a surprise phone call from Jason, who said that he and his girlfriend, Alison, were flying into east Texas for his mother's fiftieth birthday. Thanks to our being former roommates, I've been privileged to know Jason's family for the better part of a half decade, and I feel good saying that the Walkers are a top-notch clan of people. Thus, that I would indeed make the trip to Longview was a forgone conclusion. In the weeks between Jason's invitation and the actual event, the deal was sweetened by the last-minute addition of Mike Sage, who, along with little Jessica Walker, made the trip from Baton Rouge.
I arrived in Longview just as the party was getting underway, and found myself overwhelmed by a slew of aunts and uncles and cousins, all of whom were rushing about the house, ensuring that everything was in its right place before the night got going. Sage and I helped with prep work as much as we could and then changed into our bathing suits and began drinking beers. The party itself was a lot of fun, and Jason's mother was obviously having a great time. Apart from the good food and drink, the evening's highlight was a thorough slideshow that, paired with delightful music, guided everyone though some of the more poignant moments--marriage, kids, family vacations--that transpire in a half-century's worth of living. People cried. I was moved. But, more so, as I sat there in the living room, brimming with the Walker's loved ones, I was reminded how much I've always wished to have a larger family. But that's another story. Either way, it felt good to be included in a moment like that.
The next day, hungover and tired, we ate some lunch and then decided that the only activity we could muster that afternoon was to swim and drink beer. And that's all we did. And that was all we needed to do. We called it an early night and, upon waking the following morning, I dressed, gave everyone a big hug and made the long and somewhat lonesome drive back to San Antonio. The weekend was a success for a number of reasons, but, most of all, it was good to see and hang out with Jason. Despite being one of my best friends from college, he and I haven't done the best job keeping up with one another, and, thanks to his living in California, our chances to be near one another are few and far between. Anyhow, he was looking healthy and happy, which did my heart good.
A Long Weekend in Austin and the TX Hill Country: Drinking, Dancing, the Great Outdoors!
Over the course of the summer, I'd say I spent five or six weekends in Austin. This is, of course, thanks to limitless benevolence of Lauren and Jacky-boy, whose fold-out couch by summer's end felt something like a second home. Each visit was a great time, but because this entry is already shaping up to be longer than anyone would ever care to read, I'll discuss one weekend in particular.
I drove up to Austin on a Wednesday afternoon. That night, after Jack and I got lost running on a North-side greenbelt, he, Lauren and I ate dinner, had margaritas and then headed downtown, where, inside at Stubb's, we met up with Ian, Kevin and Elizabeth and saw a band called Speak. (This also happened to be the day that Michael Jackson died.) The band put on one hell of a show, and I was especially impressed by the lead singer, whose vocal range, I'm sure, will one day make him famous. Over the next few days there was swimming, drinking, a dinner date with an old friend from LSU in Spain, and a delightful meal at Veggie Heaven, about which I'd heard great things for years but had somehow never visited. On Saturday afternoon, after a day's worth of errand-running and money-spending, Lauren, Jack, Tarin, Laura and I loaded up two cars with rations, liquor, and beer and made the 45-minute drive south on I-35 to the Gately ranch. Upon arriving, we discovered that the party, which was meant to celebrate a friend of a friend's birthday, already involved a keg of Shiner, and the precedent for the evening was set. Along with a few other crazy happenings (which I'll detail later in this post) the mayhem that ensued at the Gately ranch was among the summer's wildest fun. It was, in a single word, primal. Here's what I mean: The night was based around an open-mic stage, where any partygoer could perform any way their heart desired. Some people read poetry, some people told jokes--most people, however, played rock and roll. And so, fueled by live music, pot, and lots and lots of beer, we danced, drunk as shit, well into the night. While I could write an entire essay on why this night was ridiculous and fun and wild, I'll keep it short. Jack went crazy--he sang and rapped and played guitar and danced--all in a way that can only be described as God-like. I have known and been close as can be with this man for years and years and never have I seen him so drunk and yet so deeply in his element, and being afforded the chance to see him in such a state seems to me one of the summer's greatest gifts. Elizabeth and Lauren have posted absolutely wonderful photo albums on Facebook. If you have the means, I suggest you check them out. All in all, the ranch party was one of the best nights of the summer and, if pressed, I'd say it ranks among my top twenty all-time nights out (which, in and of itself, would make for a pretty interesting update).
The Fourth of July: Mimosas and Poolside Patriotism
Early on the evening of July 3rd, my old friend Tal phoned and said he was entertaining at his ranch house, a delightful spot in the Texas Hill Country, just south of Blanco. Though I was tired, having consumed a large plate of fish tacos and two surprisingly potent margaritas at Los Barrios, I took a quick, revitalizing swim, packed a weekend bag, gassed up the Accord and made the forty-five minute drive north on 281. Once I arrived, the party was in full-swing, and the guest list included Charles, Alex, and Sara, three people with whom I once hung out regularly, but, since graduating from college, I haven't kept up with at all. It was good to see them and, as is typically the case, as far as old friends are concerned, everyone picked up right where we'd left off. Tal blended up excellent margaritas, Charles mixed mint juleps, and everyone took shots while hopping in and out of the pool. It was pretty great.
The following morning, after coffee and a swim, we all headed in to Canyon Lake for lunch and to gather Fourth of July supplies. The plans for the day involved drinking and swimming at Tal's, followed by more drinking and more swimming at the Riverhouse Landsmen, where, in years past, Caroline has hosted some memorable get-togethers. And so we all floated about in Tal's pool, sipping ice-cold mimosas and catching up. It was refreshing to see Tal and Charles, to get away from San Antonio and be in the company of old, casual buddies, and, if pressed, I'd say that this was the point of summer '09 when I felt most relaxed. (This is also true because I'd finished a pretty solid short story that same week.) After a few hours, we piled into Charles's car and drove twenty minutes or so to Caroline's, where, among friends I hadn't seen in a long time (most notably George and Paige B.), the place was overrun with guests of all ages--grey-haired businessmen, college freshmen, and roughly a dozen twenty-somethings. We set up camp chairs in the ankle-deep waters of the river banks, drank a lot of cheap beer, smoked and had a fun time. By sunset, a crowd of Matthew's nineteen-year-old pals arrived, and the next few hours involved dancing, yucking it up with Zander (who appeared out of nowhere) and, generally, feeling a bit old. Around midnight, when we'd realized that there'd be no room to sleep at the riverhouse, Tal's parents very graciously picked us up and returned us to the ranch. The rest is all blackout. The next morning, bewildered and hungover, I thanked my hosts, got into my car and somehow made it home.
A Trip to Corpus Christi: My Romantic Weekend with Patty-Cakes
Despite the fact that Harlingen and San Antonio are separated by only a three-hundred miles, by late-July it seemed as though Cakes and I would miss any chance to hang out together in Texas. Then, during one of our bi-monthly phone chats, we found ourselves discussing how nice it'd be to take a beach getaway. Then we realized that Corpus Christi was our halfway point. Then Cakes, because he's a working man and can afford to make crazy offers, made the crazy offer of paying for a hotel room. Then I, along with my mother's aid, scoured the Internet for hotels, of which, on such short notice, there were very few. Then we found one and the deal was sealed.
I arrived at the Quality Inn about fifteen minutes before Cakes, and as I gazed up at the hotel's salt-worn, pinkish walls, I knew that the weekend would surely see us acting like maniacs. Of all my friends, many of whom are wild drunks, Cakes is undoubtedly the wildest, and we spent a good part of 2003-2007 pushing each other to our breaking points. Cakes showed up and, after we'd scoped out the area (we stopped at one of about fifteen schlock stores and each bought brightly-colored baseball caps), Cakes suggested we eschew dinner and get to drinking, a decision that, while hilarious, I knew I'd come to regret. We drank Lone Stars and caught up at some dive bar, then headed down the road to a restaurant where we could sit outside and have more beers. There, over a couple of Red Stripes, a very large, very homeless-looking dude sauntered our way and began engaging us in conversation. At first, Cakes and I were dead sure that this guy was a hobo, just waiting until the time was right to start hitting us up for cash, but, in the end, he was a nice guy named Fred, who turned out to be a musician that happened to be playing at that same restaurant. So Cakes and I, both quite drunk at this point, ordered margaritas and sat down to watch. Fred's act was just him and an acoustic guitar, and once he started his set with soft variations on the A-sides of Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band, I knew we were in for a treat. He had the voice of an angel, and though he played to a room that was all but empty, those who actually listened were rewarded with a really beautiful performance. Everything came to a head when he closed with the Band's "The Weight," and asked Cakes and I to join him for the chorus's three-part harmony. As we left, Fred embraced us and loaded us up with free CDs. We then headed back to the hotel, threw shit around and pounded bourbon until going for a late-night swim sounded like a reasonable idea. After hopping into the closed and gated pool, we swam around and yelled until we grew bored and decided to go back to bar where, hours earlier and in a far saner state of mind, our night began. We got there, had drinks and then, rather unexpectedly, the bartender cut me off. Then everything faded into black; however, I do remember Cakes using a pair of scissors he'd borrowed from the front desk to cut the top off of his recently-purchased hat, thus turning it into a visor. Also, at some point (perhaps right after we each peed on the hotel's front sign) we wandered into some other hotel, where, while inexplicably riding in the elevator, we found ourselves next to a pizza delivery guy and tried to convince him to give us all his pizzas. (He declined.)
The next morning, after coffee and breakfast tacos, we spent a few hours in the hotel room, drinking beers and having what I can only think to call a powerhouse nostalgia session, during which years and years of LSU memories we re-hashed at length and in detail. Of our group of friends, Cakes and I have always been the raconteurs, so our back-and-forth was epic and enjoyable, and I felt lucky to have the chance to be with one of my best friends there at the beach. Our conversation carried on throughout the afternoon on the beach and in the pool, and that night we sat on room's porch, drinking giant Andygators and talking about our lives.
The rest of the weekend followed the same pattern. There was beach-going, taco-eating, beer-drinking and belly-laughs aplenty. Overall, the weekend proved to be one of the summer's best, and I can't thank Cakes enough for ponying up the cash for our ramshackle room on the Texas shoreline.
Summer's Last Stand: Austin, BR and the Long Drive Home to Georgia
The week after the beach, I somehow managed to write six hours a day and finish my second short story, thus fulfilling my self-imposed goal of forty summertime thesis pages. Beyond being productive, completing the second story was a good thing in that it freed me up for the weekend of the 24th, or, as I like to think of it, my last hurrah in Texas. On Friday afternoon, I picked up Farley from the airport and the two of us headed straight to Austin, where we met up with Jack, Lauren, Kevin, Elizabeth and Ian to celebrate Jack's twenty-fourth birthday. The evening began with a delightful dinner of Indian food, then we all headed to a neighborhood bar, where, aside from a round of car-bombs courtesy of Lauren, it seemed we'd spend the night in a manner somewhat calm and laid back. Then, after about an hour of reasonable behavior, everyone was bitten by the crazy bug and we decided that, since it was Jack's birthday and all, we'd be fools not to head down to Sixth street. And so we did. Things at first were fine: the bars were crowded, the drinks were strong but overpriced--all in all, everything one might expect from a night out in the trendy part of a trendy city.
Then some bro sucker-punched Farley in the face. This marked the first time I'd ever witnessed a friend being physically harmed, and, much to my surprise, my reaction was to go batshit crazy. As soon as the dude punched Fa, I chucked my Lone Star tallboy and made a beeline to (presumably) try to beat the guy up. Thankfully, my blind rage was held in check by a third party who physically held me back, and by Lauren who somehow managed to talk some sense into me. Then the bartender threw me out. The night ended next door at a club where Farley's mustache made him something of celebrity. By the time two o'clock rolled around, Jacky-boy, who'd been taking birthday shots all night, was beginning to fall apart. Then I blacked out and left with Laura. Then no one else could get a cab and everything became a nightmare, and poor, poor Lauren was forced to deal with everything.
The next morning, hungover beyond belief, we unfathomably tried to stick to our original plans and go tubing. We--that is, Lauren, myself and what at that point was basically Jack's corpse--got into my car, and Farley and Laura followed. As we headed down 35, everything seemed to be fine, and I remember being happy that we'd decided to go ahead with tubing. After some initial tension regarding the night prior, Lauren and I patched things up and some breakfast tacos cured our hangovers. So long as Jack could pull through, I told myself, the day would be a wonderful success. Then Laura's car broke. Then Laura's phone died. Then Lauren and I spent thirty minutes driving around, trying to find Laura's broken car. Then we found it, and despite everything, we resolved to leave her car at a gas station and continue on our comical voyage toward tubing. Then we got to the tubing place and found out that there was a two-hour wait, and, finally, we decided that tubing might not be the best idea. That afternoon, however, never mind it's myriad precursors of doom, ended up being great. Using the beer we'd bought for the river, Jack (whose hangover had at last melted away), Lauren, Fa and I drank and went swimming in their apartment's pool. That night, drunk and worn out, Jack slept while Lauren and I enjoyed a nice conversation on the balcony.
That Sunday, I drove back to San Antonio and headed to Fa's dad's sixtieth birthday celebration. Being able to see Big Fa and Carolyn, who were, for half a decade, like a second set of parents, is always fantastic, but this time was particularly nice, in that the house was packed with aunts and uncles and other members of the Katz/Fuentes team that I hadn't seen together in years. The food was excellent, Moglo made the greatest toast ever ("Sixty more years!"), and afterward everyone went swimming. In short, I was glad to be a part of it. Fa's parents are great people, and I'm always thrilled to see them. That evening, I made my way over to Jack's mother's place, where I again served as the lone, non-blood attendee to a family birthday party. It was good to see Jack's mom, but since I knew the dinner would be my last chance to see Jack and Lauren until Thanksgiving, the meal was bittersweet. After I bid them thanks and farewell, I went over to Farley's, and he and I ended up drunk at a strip club where, among other grotesque sights, we witnessed a fight that left some dude badly beaten and my shirt drenched in his blood. This marked the first time in my life that I've ever dialed 9-1-1. The next night was Fa's last in Texas and, after battling a day-long hangover, he cooked up a great dinner and, later, we went to Bombay's with Forrest. Then, in classic Will and Farley fashion, we stayed up late, drinking bourbon on his front porch, talking about our lives and our futures.
The next few days saw me organizing my stuff as I prepared to egress Texas. Summer was on it's last legs and my nearing Georgia homecoming struck me as impossible. Thankfully, I'd planned a five-day stopover in Baton Rouge to distract me from my return to a real life filled with teaching and grading and schedules and everything else that makes time go so fast. But, before I headed out (in fact, on my final day in San Antonio) I had the extreme pleasure to sit down and have lunch with Katy Lewis. Yes, that's right. I actually had a meal with my old friend, who just so happens to be married to a righteous dude named Derrick. And on top of that, she's going to have a baby, and when I saw her standing there in the parking lot, my heart beat fast with happiness. Another added bonus: Hannah Alberts, who I hadn't seen in years and was just back from a stint in Russia, was also there. It was really, really nice, and all I can think to say to Katy is thanks so much for making it happen, even if it happened on my last day in Texas.
The next morning I woke, went for one last run in my mother's gated community, packed my car and said goodbye to San Antonio. My mom was sad to me go, and I was sad to leave. Although it wasn't perfect, my time living in my mother's home was ultimately an experience I'll remember fondly. I think she and I are closer for it, and, further, it felt good to let her see that I'd done a lot of growing up in the last couple of years. Even though she's a bit crazy, I love my mother, and I'm thankful to have had the chance to reconnect with her over the summertime.
Baton Rouge was, as ever, too much fun. I stayed with Sage at the Pike house, had great dinners over at Hax and Jacky's. One night, we won trivia. Another night, we all passed out on the deck. We played beer-pong, hung out at the Chimes and did everything we used to do when we were younger and life was more carefree. Though the trip was a lot of fun, I can't help but feel that, for whatever reason, I was went overboard with my drinking. Sage, too, was acting crazy. One night, for instance, instead ordering a beer, we each ordered pitchers of beer, a move that, even at the height of my booze life (c. 2006) would've seemed a tad excessive. Anyhow, by the time Wednesday rolled around and I was readying myself to leave, I felt tired and whacked-out and somewhat remorseful about my behavior. But my last night, when Jacky and I cooked dinner for everybody, was rather nice and made up for the previous nonsense.
I woke up at 6 the next morning and drove and drove and drove--drove past Mississippi and Alabama and the endless hills of west Georgia, until, at last I merged onto 49 and zoomed through Jones county and into Milledgeville, where I somehow live and work and try to write short stories.
As soon as I stepped onto my front porch and slid my key into the door, I knew that summer '09 was over, and for that I felt both enlivened and sad. And now, when I look at this place, this funky little town where I've resided since August of 2007, I know that I'm about to leave it, that I'm about be cast again into the unpredictable movements of life.
Other fun facts about the summer: I quit smoking (3 months and counting); I conquered my longstanding fear of interstate driving; thanks to my mother's swimming pool, it's likely that, over the course of ten weeks, I took less than fifteen showers.
This entry only exists because I made myself write it. But I'm glad that I did.