Christmas & Ice Fishing Trip 2010

(Special shout-out to Tucker and Keaton Hickman, who are going to love this post. Hi, guys!)

(Also, please be aware that you can click on any picture in this post to get a raging mega-huge version.)

If you’ve followed this blog at all, you’ve probably already encountered The Posts of Christmas Past (here, here, and here). Another Christmas has come and gone, so it’s time for another addition to my proud litany of holiday blog entries. This year’s trip was split into two distinct sections: Hanging Around the House and Ice Fishing. Let’s tackle them in that order, shall we?

It’s been a snowy winter, even by Minnesota standards, and the ground was thoroughly blanketed when I arrived. The giant nativity figures in the front yard were struggling to keep their heads above the snow, and we had completely lost contact with the sheep and the shortest Wise Guy. While no snow fell on the actual day I arrived, it snowed both the day before and the day after. Snow continued, off and on, throughout my stay.

This little pine tree in the front yard shows off the fresh blanket of snow rather well.

The various little tweety birds who stay in Minnesota over the winter were glad that my mom keeps her bird feeders filled, too.

OM NOM NOM

Naturally, the Hanging Around the House phase included all of the traditions you’ve read about in years past. Mom waited until I was home to trim the tree, and she and I decorated it together one of the first nights I was home. I also had the requisite trip or two to St. Stephen with my brother, his girlfriend, and her family. We gathered at the house on Christmas Eve to frost cookies and exchange presents, and both of the boys’ girlfriends were there, too. Like we do every year, we sang along to Anne Murray’s rendition of “Away In A Manger” as we placed the Christ child in the manger of the nativity scene. The only exception to the rule this year was that we showed up at midnight for midnight mass only to find that it had been held at ten o’clock. Who has midnight mass at ten o’clock? Mom was not amused. Nonetheless, we had a great time together.

Cameron (with Tanner), me, Mom, Chissom (with Tinkerbell), and Dad (with Maggie)

One of the more interesting parts of Hanging Around the House was helping Dad with a taxidermy project. He’s in the process of stuffing a series of heads for a guy who just came back from an African safari, and the animal he was working on while I was home, a Greater Kudu, was too big for him to stretch the hide by himself. My dad (and occasionally my brother) does beautiful taxidermy work, but I don’t know much about it. I’ve never really helped before, but we had a good time getting the hide over the form and sewing up the seams on this monster.

The face looks a little funky because Dad hadn't tightened it up, set the ears, sculpted the eyes, or tucked the mouth yet. Still, you can tell it's going to be impressive.

After several days of Hanging Around the House, my vacation shifted into its other phase: Ice Fishing. Dad, Chissom, Cameron, and I piled into Dad’s truck at 5 a.m., along with a SERIOUS amount of fishing equipment, and set out for Lake of the Woods, which is on the Minnesota/Canada border. It’s about a five-hour drive from the house. You’ve probably seen pictures of ice fishing adventures in past Christmas posts, but this year was a bit different. As our Christmas gift, Dad rented a sleeper house for three days, so we didn’t have to set up our own fish houses, drill our own holes, or do any of the setup work related to ice fishing. All we had to do was show up and catch fish. It was pretty fantastic. Fishing with Arnesen’s Rocky Point Resort is a first-class deal, right from the start. Upon arriving at the landing, we were greeted by a friendly employee who helped us load all our fishing stuff into this little rig:

Hey, look. Somebody found an actual USE for a Geo Tracker.

There are a few interesting features to notice about the Tracker. First, notice the snow chains on the tires. There are roads on the lake, but we had to leave the road to get to our fish house, naturally. Also, check out the giant counterweight on the front of the vehicle so that the tongue weight of the trailer doesn’t lift the front tires off the ground and make steering impossible. That big yellow blob in the back is an air bladder, “just in case something goes wrong.” We didn’t expect any problems, but the float is required by law. That thing behind the Tracker is not our fish house; it’s just a trailer used to transport us and all our stuff out onto the lake. There was plenty of room inside for us to sit comfortably and stow our gear, and the trailer was heated. There was about 14 to 16 inches of ice on the lake, which is why we had to use the Tracker. When there’s 18 inches or more, the resort switches to Bombardiers. Now THIS thing is cool:

I need one of these.

It’s just a bit bigger than a full-size van, and it’s WAY faster on the lake than the Trackers. There’s even a hydraulic door on the back that flips down to reveal stairs so people can get themselves and their gear inside. Sadly, we didn’t get to ride in the Bombardier because there wasn’t quite enough ice. As we rode out to the fish house in the trailer behind the Tracker, we had to get out at one point and walk across a short bridge. When a lake as big as Lake of the Woods freezes, it tends to break up into individual ice sheets that grind up against each other as the ice continues to form. If you’ve ever left a can of soda in your freezer, you know that liquids expand as they freeze. As the lake freezes, the ice on top of it expands, and since it can’t push very far up onto land, huge ridges form where the ice sheets meet on the lake. Like plate-tectonics, the ice sheets grind against one another and create miniature mountains of ice. The ridge we had to cross on the way to our fish house was about five feet high, and the staff at Arnesen’s had to crush or grind a flat space in the ridge and lay a bridge across it so the Trackers (and later the Bombardiers) could pass through. We had to walk across this bridge because it’s a potentially weak spot in the ice, and they don’t want to drive us across it “just in case.” Of course, there was no problem, and we hopped back in the trailer after crossing the ridge so we could enjoy the rest of the four-mile ride out to the fish house, 64 Squid.

Home sweet home

This picture was taken shortly after our arrival. From left to right, you’ll see the little blue generator (used to power cell phone chargers, radio, etc), a gas can for the generator, the fish house, assorted fishing gear and storage containers, and the big propane tank that provides fuel to the oven, stove, heater, and furnace inside. The house was ten feet wide and about twenty-two feet long. It contained bunk beds and a restroom. When we arrived, the holes were already cut, the house had been cleaned, and the heater was running. I never put on a pair of boots during the whole trip.

This is where I kicked butt for 48 hours.

Here you see my two fishing rods, which look like tiny versions of regular rods, except that these are only about two feet long. The device on the right is called a Vexilar, and it’s the wintertime version of a fish locator. Those two yellow bobbers spent the weekend disappearing again and again. Before I get into fish pictures, here are a couple more pictures of the inside of the fish house, so you can truly appreciate how firmly we were perched on the lap of luxury.

Facing the back of the house

Here’s Dad, tending his fishing area. You can see my fishing rods on the right. Behind him are the two sets of bunk beds and the restroom. Notice the smoke detector and the carbon monoxide detector. Can’t be too careful! In the foreground, you see the corner of the stove and the corner of the table.

Facing the front of the house

Here, Cameron is set up on the left, and Chissom is on the right. The card table and stove appear again, along with the minnow buckets and the very large heater. Notice the complete lack of cold-weather clothes. We could have had the place feeling like a sauna, with a heater that size. We didn’t have lines in the water very long before we started catching fish…but before I describe that, let’s have a quick review of the fish species in Lake of the Woods, shall we?

• Walleyes: Our primary target species. These are very tasty fish, and they’re prized by Minnesota fishermen. The can reach very large sizes, but the most common size on Lake of the Woods is 14 to 18 inches. Trophy walleyes exceeding 28 inches are caught fairly often.

Walleye

• Saugers: Close cousins to walleyes, saugers differ only slightly. They don’t grow as large, and they’re distinguishable by the spots on their dorsal fins and the lack of a white tip on the lower tail fin. Also, saugers tend to have bigger “shoulders” than walleyes, meaning they’re thicker in the front half of the body, and they provide thick fillets. The differences between walleyes and saugers aren’t as obvious as these pictures make them seem, and the two species can be difficult for some people to tell apart. To further complicate the matter, the two species sometimes interbreed, producing saugeyes, which have the spots on the dorsal fin as well as the white tip on the tail fin.

Sauger

• Yellow Perch: For some bizarre reason, Southerners call bluegills and sunfish “perch,” even though they’re not. A perch is an entirely separate species. These fish are fairly small in most lakes, ranging from six to eight inches, but Lake of the Woods, with its excellent nutritional resources, produces some as big as fourteen inches. Genetically related to walleyes, perch are good eating fish.

Perch

• Eelpout (also called Burbot or Ling Cod): Many anglers really, really hate these fish. They’re big, they’re hungry, and they’re ugly. Eelpout get quite big; in fact, I don’t think I’ve ever seen a particularly small one. As a cod species, they’re pretty tasty, but many people refuse to eat them based on the ugly factor. Nobody wants to catch eelpout, but a big one is sure fun to have on the line.

Eelpout

• Tulibee: Whitefish, tilapia, ciscoe, tulibee, it’s all pretty much the same fish. We don’t keep tulibee to eat, just because walleyes are so much better, but many people do like them. I’ve never known tulibees to get particularly big.

Tulibee

The lake is also home to muskellunge, northern pike, lake trout, and sturgeon, but we didn’t catch any of those, so there’s really not much point in posting pictures. Now, have you got all the above species committed to memory? There will be a quiz later.

As I was saying before the fish descriptions, we didn’t have our lines in the water for more than a few minutes when this happened:

Cameron helps Chissom land a fish

It can be a little challenging to reach down to the surface of the ice while holding a fishing rod in one hand and trying to handle a squirming fish, so the guy nearest someone who’s reeling up a fish usually gives him a hand. Once the action started, it was hand-over-fist for sometimes an hour at a time. Honestly, the fishing was tremendous. Let’s take a look at one of each species…

Dad with a pretty good walleye--see the lack of spots on the dorsal fin and the white tip on the tail? Also, notice the eye from which the species draws its name.

 

Here's Chissom with a fat little perch

Cameron caught the only tulibee of the trip.

This is a pot-bellied eelpout that we estimated at 9 or 10 pounds. Dad was not thrilled to be my fish-grabber on this one.

Of course, taking good fish pictures is all a matter of perspective...

After looking through all the fish pictures, I discover that I don’t have a picture of a sauger. Just imagine a small walleye with different spots, okay? Of course, we did more than catch fish in 64 Squid. We also…

...ate steaks...

...cleaned fish...

...relaxed...

 

...and wandered around the lake in boxer shorts and loafers.

By the end of the weekend, we’d caught over 120 walleyes/saugers, along with a few fish of the non-target species. We ate fish on the lake one night, and we had fresh fish again the night after we got home. All in all, it was a fantastic trip. I hope to go back within a year or two. I was sad to leave ol’ 64 Squid.

Winter, contrary to Southern belief, is beautiful.

Airports

This morning, I rose punctually at 6:00 instead of hitting the snooze, changed the cat litter, dragged the trash can to the curb—even though it won’t be emptied until Thursday and will probably sit abandoned in the street for a week or more until I return—took one last look around the house, although I have no idea what I was looking for,  and finally deposited my battered duffel bag and my college backpack in the back seat of my truck in preparation for the drive to George Bush Intercontinental Airport in Houston. This is standard procedure; I fly to Minnesota every winter, and preparing to be absent for a week looks more or less the same every time. Sure, my trip to Minnesota has been from a few different states (California, Texas), airports (Bush, Hobby, LAX), and domiciles (apartment, then house, then apartment, then house again), but despite these apparent changes, it’s always the same: provide for the cats, lock the door, drive to the airport. Such is the life of a single man, I suppose.  Returning next week will have the appearance of watching this morning’s events on a surveillance camera while holding down the rewind button: drive back to the house, unlock the door, take care of the cats’ various food/water/litter needs, return to work and daily life. Luckily, I expect my week in Minnesota to bring relaxation, time with my family, and a complete lack of graduate school. Sadly, I can’t leave work behind; the aforementioned grad school, combined with my own complete lack of time-management skills and impulse control, has left me with quite a stack of essays that need my attention. Between merrymaking, ice fishing, drinking Canadian whiskey, and frosting cookies, I’ll have to find some time to remedy various crimes against the English language perpetrated by my sophomores.

That’s not what I sat down to write about, though. In fact, I don’t really know what purpose that paragraph will serve. Ah, well. On I go, dutifully assailing the keyboard.

A moment ago—the moment just before I opened my laptop, in fact—I had an odd and somewhat terrifying experience of not knowing, just for a moment, where I was. It’s got to be the environment here at gate A12 crossing up my neural signals. I know I’m in Houston, but as I sat here for the last couple of hours, the typical airport hubbub has totally engulfed me. I’m surrounded by people drinking coffee from disposable cups, overhead speakers instructing me not to let anyone put a bomb in my backpack, overdressed slicksters shouting boardroom nonsense into their Bluetooth headsets without the first clue that they look like crazy street preachers, abandoned copies of USA Today, elderly people with a look of distrust and dread in their eyes, as though they’re really not sure whether this whole aeroplane business is really safe. It’s the same experience I’ve had at every airport I’ve ever flown into or out of. They’re all the same. Even in Frankfurt and Munich, the only noticeable difference is that the chatter contains a few unfamiliar sounds and the newspapers don’t care what Republicans think about Obama. At an airport, there’s almost no discernable sign of what city lies outside the glass. The people, sounds, coffee shops, and announcements that surround me now are the same ones I’ll encounter when I get off the plane in Minneapolis. Or Denver. Or Atlanta. Or Los Angeles. In fact, Delta could fly me to the wrong airport entirely, and I probably wouldn’t even realize it until I walked all the way through the airport and found that my parents weren’t waiting to pick me up at the curb.

So. For just a moment, about fifteen minutes ago, I had no idea where I was…and I realized that airports are not places. It seems to me that a place should have some kind of defining characteristics. After all, a spot in the ocean that’s 300 miles east of Boston doesn’t have a different name than a spot in the ocean that’s 150 miles east of New York. They’re both just “the ocean.” For all practical purposes, they’re exactly the same, except to oceanographers, marine biologists, and fish. That being said, maybe I shouldn’t say that airports are not places; instead, maybe they’re all the same place.

It’s a bizarre and unsettling phenomenon. How can one place be in more than one place? The sheer ridiculousness of the question is trumped only by the fact that while it seems impossible, it’s happening all around us. Now that I’m thinking about it, I realize that when I get off the airplane in Minneapolis, my parents will drive me out of the city along a highway lined with McDonalds, Starbucks, PetsMarts, Citgos, Wal-Marts, and Office Depots. Minneapolis is, in many ways, the same city as Houston. The same litany of clean, well-lighted places we’d pass in nearly every major city in America. I could be anywhere in the country and get some McNuggets when I’m hungry, go to Walgreen’s when I need batteries, and drive through Starbucks if I’m in the mood for a cup of overpriced coffee. The mall in Norfolk is made up of the same stores as the one in Seattle, and the Target in San Jose uses the same floor plan as the one in Sarasota. None of them are places, in the sense of having defining characteristics. Or rather, each Starbucks, McDonald’s, Walgreens, and shopping mall in America is the same place as each of its brethren. Our cities, then, made up of one after another of these non-places, almost become non-places themselves—one enormous megalopolis of neon signs and fluorescent lights.

Almost.

This is why I love little out-of-the-way restaurants and eclectic mom-and-pop stores. These are places, and I visit them whenever I’m nearby. In St. Cloud, my favorite place is a book store in old downtown. In Kansas City, it’s Korma Sutra Indian restaurant. In Duluth, I always visit Russ Kendall’s Smokehouse and The Anchor Bar and Grill. In Austin, I never miss a chance to visit High Ball. San Bernardino is home to a fantastic series of thrift shops and junk stores. Even Los Angeles, that great plastic wasteland, has Tommy’s Burgers. Here in town, we have The Dixie Chicken, Revolution, The Village Café, and Earth Art.

I can only get an Anchor Burger at The Anchor, and I can only bowl in a retro-1950s alley when I’m at High Ball…and I like it that way. These places—real, genuine places—give their cities life, personality, and identity. Much of their value lies in the fact that they are singular, without franchises, branches, or Second Locations Coming Soon. I don’t get excited about visiting Applebee’s, but I’m like a kid on Christmas morning as I approach Russ Kendall’s.

These places, for me, are opportunities for discovery. Every time I walk into a small, privately owned business, there’s a strong possibility I’ll find something on the menu I’ve never eaten before, notice a rare book that I could never have predicted, or meet an interesting proprietor who’s genuinely happy to have my business. That just doesn’t happen at Target. Or T.G.I. Friday’s. Or Barnes and Noble. Browsing shelves of items I never expected to find, chatting with shopkeepers, and learning that I love (or hate) some bizarre new dish are learning experiences. They broaden my mind and my world. They truly are moments of wonder and joy.

So. If you ask me where I’d like to go for dinner, a drink, or some window-shopping, don’t be surprised if I suggest something unfamiliar. I’m always on the hunt for new places, and I’d like to introduce you to some of them, too.

Austria Pictures

I’ve finally finished uploading and labeling my pictures from Austria. Although I took close to 800, I’ve narrowed it down to about 325 on ShutterFly. After all, not every picture is interesting. If you’d like to take a look at a photographic representation of my trip, just follow this link to my ShutterFly page.

Austria is the most amazing place I’ve ever visited. The history is mind-boggling. I walked through buildings that were standing 500 years before Europeans reached North America. I visited the birthplaces and graves of people like Mozart, Beethoven, the Habsburgs, and the Esterhazys. I stood on a stage where Haydn himself often performed. As we toured Salzburg and Vienna, the tour guide didn’t even bother to mention buildings that weren’t at least 300 years old.

I loved walking through the pedestrian shopping areas in Austria. Buying meals from street vendors, listening to the German language spoken all around me, and window shopping without buying much of anything was one of my favorite aspects of the trip. Just immersing myself in the city and blending in with the locals made my day every day.

I can see where Europeans get their negative view of Americans. I visited three major cities and a number of little towns while I was in Austria, and I never saw a single piece of trash on the ground. People just don’t litter. I didn’t see a single SUV. The only large vehicles I saw were for public transportation or business. Otherwise, people drive sensible cars. Except for the very old, I didn’t see a single overweight native European. They eat more sensibly than we do, and they walk FAR more than we do.

So. I’m back in the U.S.A. I’m glad to be here, but I’ve decided to make some changes, both for the sake of preserving my memories of Europe and for the sake of embodying the best qualities I saw in Europe and Europeans. I’ve been slacking a little in the eating healthy and exercise department, but it’s time for that to change. I’m going to get back on track. I’m also going to pay a lot less attention to my television and more to my books. I’m going to learn about history. I’m going to start saving money for my next trip to Europe.

THIS is why we have weekends…

Warning: This is a LONG post. Get comfortable. Bring a sack lunch. Stay a while.

Good news, readers: my weekend kicked an absolutely unreasonable amount of ass. February 6 and 7 reminded me why we stop working once every five days and take a little break.

Plans for this weekend began months ago, when I realized that Justin Townes Earle was going to play the Mucky Duck in Houston on Friday night. I’ve seen JTE twice before, and as you may recall, I’m a bit of a fan. I firmly believe that this guy is one of the best singer-songwriters working today, and I can’t understand why everyone isn’t rushing out to buy every song he’s ever recorded. If you’re unfamiliar with his work, grab a couple of songs from the download box on the right side of your screen right now.

Midweek, when The Usual Suspects decided to make a weekend of this trip, I got on hotwire.com to look for a hotel room in Houston. If you’ve ever used hotwire, you know that the prices are GREAT, but you can’t see which hotel you’ve actually selected until after you pay. You get to choose the city, obviously (or a part of the city, in the case of a major metropolis like Houston), but where you actually stay is kind of a crapshoot. I selected the section of Houston surrounding the Mucky Duck, which includes areas as far as ten to twelve miles and several nasty freeway interchanges away. After I selected a price and paid, the website kindly informed me that we would be staying at a hotel .42 miles from the Mucky Duck. That’s right: our hotel was less than half a mile from the concert. I took this to be a very positive sign.

The problem with going to see JTE at the Mucky Duck is that the Mucky Duck doesn’t sell tickets online. They also don’t sell tickets via credit card. Since I don’t live in Houston, I had no way to buy tickets in advance. When I called the Mucky Duck on Friday afternoon, the employee who answered the phone informed me that the show was sold out. This could have been a damper on our trip, but Big T, WrongFoot, and I already had a hotel room and plans to see the show, so we set off with every intention of buying tickets off some shady-looking sidewalk scalper. Even if we didn’t get in, the worst case scenario was that we’d spend a night out on the town in Houston. It was a risk we were willing to take.

We arrived at the Mucky Duck early. Very early. We left town immediately after school on Friday and cruised through traffic as if my truck were parting the Red Sea. I’ve never reached Houston so effortlessly. We even stopped at Waller County Line Barbecue and picked up a link of hot smoked boudin to munch on while we drove. Upon arriving at the Mucky Duck a couple hours early, I realized that there would be no scalpers. The place is tiny. When we stepped inside, a guy with a guest list asked for our names. Since we weren’t on the list, the lady who seemed to be in charge encouraged us to step out onto the patio and have a drink. She said she’d let us know if there was standing room available once the show started. We were slightly bummed, but tried to remain hopeful. Big T exited to the patio while WrongFoot and I headed for the restroom.

By the time we returned from the men’s room, Big T was standing between the guest list guy and the in-charge lady, handing over some cash. Apparently, just a moment after Big T stepped outside, the in-charge lady stepped out onto the patio and asked, “Where are my three guys?” It turned out that some of the people inside had reserved two tables, one for themselves and one for friends who were flying in from Nashville for the show. The friends’ plane was delayed, and they weren’t going to make it for JTE. After informing us that having a table meant ordering dinner and a “fancy bottle of wine,” the very friendly lady showed us to our seats.  We not only got in, friends; we got a TABLE with a SPECTACULAR view of the stage. You never saw three guys with bigger grins on their faces.

Upon being presented with menus, I realized that the Mucky Duck takes the culinary aspects of their business very seriously. Being health-conscious eaters, we decided that three appetizers and three entrees would be an appropriate amount of food to order. Big T ordered baked brie, which was served with sliced apples, a raspberry sauce on top, and french bread upon which to arrange the whole menagerie. WrongFoot opted for a steak and mushroom cheese fondue, served with toasted pita bread for dipping. I settled upon Scotch eggs. I’d never heard of them before, much less eaten them, but I couldn’t resist the description. Scotch eggs are hard-boiled eggs, wrapped in a layer of sausage, then breaded and deep fried. They’re about the size of a baseball, and they’re served cut in half, accompanied by brown curry mustard for dipping. I can’t begin to describe how wonderful this dish tasted. It was like taking a big bite of happiness.

Scotch Eggs: We had partially eaten a couple of them before we realized they were a gift from God and deserved a picture...

After conquering the appetizers and a few glasses of beer, we enjoyed our entrees. Big T chose shepherd’s pie, while WrongFoot opted for fish tacos and I had a steak and mushroom pie. All three were good, but the appetizers seriously outshined the main dishes. On the bright side, we had plenty of curry brown mustard left, and we ate it on EVERYTHING. I kind of wanted to order about a quart to go.

Just as we were finishing dinner, the opening act took the stage. I never heard of Dawn Landes before, but I’m always hopeful about opening bands. You may recall that I first heard JTE when he opened for Old Crow Medicine Show. Dawn Landes is a gorgeous young woman who writes and plays a variety of songs I can best describe as Americana. Accompanied by a bass player who sometimes switches to electric guitar and a drummer who also plays a hands-free harmonica (beast mode!), Landes performs songs ranging from country to folk to a kind of experimental drum-driven world beat sound. She played a relatively short set, maybe a dozen songs, but I thoroughly enjoyed it. I picked up her latest album on vinyl from the merchandise table, and she was kind enough to sign it for me after the show.

Love? I'll bet she say that to all the boys.

After a brief intermission that involved a bottle of muscato d’asti, which is my one of my new wine obsessions, JTE took the stage, flanked by a bearded fiddler and a feisty-looking woman who carried her stand-up bass to the stage over her head. The first time I saw JTE, he was accompanied by one guy who alternated between bass, mandolin, and banjo. The second time, JTE flew solo. I was surprised to see him with two other people on stage. Apparently, he can perform with any kind of sidekicks or none at all.

I don’t know what to say about JTE’s performance except that he’s a genius. For the second time in four posts, I have to say “I’m not resorting to melodrama, here.” Justin Townes Earle is amazing. Very rarely do I see an artist in concert who sounds even better on stage than on CD, but that’s exactly the case with JTE. “Halfway To Jackson” alone was worth the price of admission. During the course of the set, the band treated us to several songs which will be included on an upcoming album (which I’m looking forward to in a big way), and Dawn Landes even joined JTE on stage to perform a duet of Dolly Parton’s “Do I Ever Cross Your Mind.” (Interesting side note: WrongFoot was mighty fond of Dawn Landes. During JTE’s set, knowing that she was about to be called up on stage for the duet, she came out into the audience area and hunkered down near the back to wait. Seeing her there, WrongFoot scooted back in the booth and offered her the seat next to him, which she gladly accepted for the remainder of the song before her duet. WrongFoot was a very happy fellow.)

The Duet, although my cell phone camera doesn't really do it justice...

The merchandise table also had JTE’s newest album available on vinyl, so I grabbed it (along with a pretty badass t-shirt), and he signed it for me after the show. I left the Mucky Duck with two signed LPs, a spiffy new shirt, a fantastic meal in my belly, and an amazing listening experience added to my memories of the musical world. Yet, the night was young.

You can bet that this bad boy is going to end up framed.

The Aforementioned Shirt: front view and inside back, where the tag would usually be. Notice that it's a limited edition, 1 of 200. Ooh. Fancy.

From the Mucky Duck, we ventured to several nearby pubs. I don’t recall the exact order, but we definitely hit Under The Volcano, famous for its frozen screwdrivers and named after a fantastic novel by Malcolm Lowry, which is one of the finest novels of the last 100 years and which WAY more people should have read. I found the combination of the literary name and the tasty frozen screwdrivers very pleasing, indeed. We also checked out the Kelvin Arms, “Houston’s Only Scottish Pub,” which is located in what used to be a bank. In fact, you can take your drink into the vault, where they have arranged lots of lounge-style furniture and pleasant ambient lighting. Finally, we hit the Marquis Part Deux, a place WrongFoot frequented during his college years. The building used to be a strip joint called the Marquis, and the new owners didn’t feel compelled to change the name too much when they bought it. This bar is a dive. The carpet is probably hosting seventeen strains of deadly or at least severely disgusting bacteria and mold. That said, the drinks are potent and cheap, and the chairs are REALLY comfortable. While we enjoyed a Long Island, some random guy told me that I look like stand-up comedian Jim Gaffigan. I’ve never been told that before, but I can see his point.

See the resemblance?

After a couple of drinks, a cheap pepperoni pizza, and a SERIOUS hand-washing, we departed the Marquis Part Deux for the Extended Stay America hotel, just a few blocks away. Our room contained a queen-sized bed as well as a chair and ottoman. Because both Big T and I exceed 6 foot 2 (Big T isn’t just a clever name. Nor is Big Red Poet.), WrongFoot was nominated to sleep on the chair-ottoman combination. I didn’t envy him, but he seemed not to mind, and passed out as soon as he was horizontal.

Saturday was an unexpectedly beautiful day. For the past few weeks, we’ve had nothing but gray skies, drizzle, and general ickyness, but when we awoke on Saturday, we were greeted by sunshine, a light breeze, and a temperature that was perfect for walking around outside in a polo shirt, which was convenient since a polo shirt was exactly what I’d brought to wear. We headed over toward Rice Village, where we had lunch at Mi Luna, a tapas restaurant. If you’ve never had tapas, let me tell you: It’s amazing. Basically, tapas style dining involves ordering several small entrees instead of one big one. Generally, everyone at the table shares a little of every dish. Each little plate costs between 3 and 10 dollars, and the food is amazing. The dishes we ordered included smelt in olive oil, beef skewers, zucchini with gorgonzola, b’stilla (a puff pastry filled with chicken, egg, and pine nuts and topped with cinnamon), spicy shrimp with garlic, and scallops served over a tomato-based sauce. There may have been others, but my memory fails. This was my third trip to Mi Luna, and I have yet to order anything I haven’t enjoyed.

After tapas, we headed for the two-story used bookstore just down the block. We didn’t quite get there, though. We got distracted by a place called The Chocolate Bar, which makes all manner of wonderful home-made sweets. We perused cakes, cookies, chocolates, ice cream, chocolate covered fruit, fudge, and lord knows what else before deciding on our desserts. I had a three-scoop serving of ice cream, which I carried with me to the book store.

If Big T and WrongFoot had let me, I might have stayed at the book store all day. Since we had places to go, though, I tried to move quickly. I checked all the usual suspects (Cormac McCarthy, Jeffrey Lent, Leif Enger, and the like) for first editions, signed copies, etc, but I didn’t find anything very interesting. I was just about to call it quits when I remembered a novel that Pre and I saw at Barnes & Noble on a random late-night bookstore trip a few days before. (Remember the trip to Target, then to a bookstore, then to get a quesadilla? That’s the one. It all comes together.) Daniel Choan’s Await Your Reply has only been on the shelf since August of this year, and it’s still selling for regular price at Barnes & Noble and Hastings. I didn’t really expect to find a used copy, but I figured it couldn’t hurt to check. As it turns out, I found a copy. I then found another copy. They were both first printings of the first edition…and they were both signed. If I hadn’t been so full of tapas and ice cream, I might have jumped for joy. I quickly snatched up both of them and ran down to the cash register before anybody realized I was about to ROB THE PLACE BLIND. Seriously. I can’t believe I scored two signed first editions of what promises to be an amazing novel (Go read the description at the link…) for $12.50 each. The book is still $25 at the bookstore. Score.

I win.

After Rice Village, we headed toward Montrose. On the way, though, we got waylayed on a little section of street that had several interesting-looking antique shops and a couple of cafes. Upon exploring the antique shops, I perused a selection of furniture unlike any I’ve ever seen in my life. These people must go to every estate sale in Houston and buy all the gorgeous old furnishings that come out of those mansions that the deceased leave behind. Left to my own devices, I could easily have spent several thousand dollars on desks, book cases, etc. By far the most tempting piece of furniture I saw was a 1930s globe/bar. I’ve wanted one of these ever since I first saw one, and this antique was in absolutely fantastic condition. The decanters inside are French crystal, and all the wooden parts as well as the globe are original from the 1930s. I swear if I wasn’t planning to go to Austria, I would have bought it. What’s $1600 compared to something like this?

Oh, to be rich. *sigh*

After dragging myself away from the globe (which still makes me kind of sad), we stepped into a place called Domy Books, which is seriously the strangest store I’ve ever been visited in my life. Remember, I lived in California for about five years, so that’s SAYING something. I looked around this bookstore for twenty minutes or so, and the only familiar titles I saw were concentrated on one small shelf of American subversives (Kerouac, Palanhiuk, etc) that was stashed in a back corner. Beyond that, the place was filled with the most bizarre array of books, leaflets, tracts, and magazines I have ever seen. Every underground, special-interest, risque, local, self-published, unknown, and generally just very weird kind of book was available for sale, but I couldn’t find a single thing that didn’t frighten or confuse me at least a little. Behind the store was a little courtyard, and it was full of people sitting at tables eating lunch. Oddly, though, there was no place in the courtyard to buy food. I have no idea where this crowd of freaks came from or why they saw fit to eat their lunches behind Domy Books while people in the store wandered around wondering what the hell was going on. By the time we left, Big T looked like he’d been whacked in the side of the head with a rubber mallet. An hour later, he was still muttering “What the hell?”

After our surreal visit to Domy Books, we crossed the street to Agora, which turned out to be the most amazing coffeehouse/cafe/bar I’ve ever visited in my life. Perhaps it was the fantastic mood of the day overtaking my judgment, but I don’t think I’ve ever enjoyed my first visit to any establishment as much as I enjoyed Agora. It’s in an old house near the corner of Kirby and Westheimer, and as soon as I walked in I was ensconced by the smell of coffee, lots of dark wood and leather furniture, and the low hum of friendly chatter. The bar offered a full coffeehouse selection of caffeinated beverages as well as beers and a great selection of wines. I opted for a glass of port (my other new wine obsession), and we headed for the deck upstairs, which overlooks the foot traffic through the whole neighborhood we had just explored. As we sat on that deck with the sun shining down, a hint of a breeze, and the beginnings of a buzz, all three of us simultaneously realized what a fantastic weekend we’d been experiencing. We drank a toast to good friends and good times. As I looked around the patio, I was pleasantly surprised to see several genuinely beautiful women enjoying their cups of coffee or glasses of wine. It was nice to be surrounded by a crowd of people my own age, rather than the 21-23 year old crowd usually found in our local bars.

By the time we left Houston proper, I had two signed LPs, two signed books, a belly full of amazing food, and a wicked new JTE t-shirt. Things were going well. Luckily, though, the weekend wasn’t over. We still had to stop at Choo Choo Sushi. Big T and WrongFoot found this place a while back when they were in Houston for a conference. Since they know I love sushi, they insisted I had to try it. I didn’t argue. Choo Choo Sushi is named after the method of service the restaurant employs. Basically, when you step inside, you’re seated at a long bar that weaves its way throughout the restaurant. Atop the bar is a moving conveyor belt (not unlike a train…get it?) upon which individual plates of sushi ride around the dining room. When you see one you want, you just grab it. The plates are color coded, and your bill is tabulated by simply counting up the plates in front of you when you’re finished. The cheapest plates were $1.50, and the most expensive were $4.00, which is a hell of a deal for sushi. The three of us sampled many different cuts of sushi, sharing them amongst ourselves as we had at Mi Luna. (Starting to see the pattern? We feed like pack animals.) The most interesting cut I tried was octopus sashimi. Honestly, I grabbed it mostly out of curiosity, but it turned out to be very, very tasty. It has a subtle flavor that’s meatier than I expected and a consistency more similar to pork than fish. I’d definitely get it again.

I've always suspected octopi of being delicious. My theory is now proven.

After our visit to Choo Choo Sushi, we headed back home. Our drive was uneventful, with WrongFoot dozing off and on in the back seat of my truck while Big T and I sang along with my mixed CDs. We had to make decent time, too, because I was scheduled to chaperon the high school’s Sadie Hawkins dance from 10:00 to midnight. I dropped off The Usual Suspects at their respective houses and hurried home to take a quick shower and get dressed for Sadie. (I’m not counting my half-hour at home as “the end of the trip.” I didn’t even sit down. Sadie Hawkins is still part of the road trip.) I checked in to the dance at 9:57 like it had been just another Saturday. The dance proceeded about as expected, with lots of horrifying hip-hop music I’ve never heard before, several administrative admonitions against “grinding,” the occasional slow song, one fistfight, and an epic remix of Journey’s “Don’t Stop Believin’.”

After the dance, a few of my fellow chaperons (Little T, B-Rob, E-Rob, EggRoll, and Safarrah, for those of you keeping score at home) and I headed over to the Texas Hall of Fame for a nightcap. This place is a genuine Texas honky-tonk, but there was no band on Saturday, so the crowd was small. We commandeered a small table and spent an hour or so laughing and unwinding. Several people commented, “We don’t do this often enough,” referring to just getting together for a beer and some BS. I concur.

Since the Hall is less than a mile from my house, about five minutes passed between my last goodbye of the evening and my assuming a position of horizontal repose. Thank god. I don’t think I could have stayed awake for another moment.

Damn! I just realized that I forgot to mention our visit to Nan’s Games & Comics and our stop at Griff’s Irish Pub. At this point, I can’t recall when we visited each of those places, so I don’t know where to fit them into the above chronology. You’ll just have to trust that I was there and that it was awesome.

This entire trip was literally one of the best weekends of my life. I am reminded of the wonder of discovering new places, the joy of eating and drinking previously unknown foods and beverages,  the glory of live music, and the comfort of having amazing buddies to share it with.

I’m sure we’ll attempt another epic voyage soon. You should join us.

Holy crap. I’m going to Austria.

Yesterday, the choir director here at the high school sent out an email to the faculty which informed us that he is taking a group of his choir students on one of those guided tours over spring break. The group will spend the week in Austria. He also wrote that he had two seats left in the group, if anyone wanted to travel with the group as a tourist. Here I am, 28 hours after receiving that email, with the completed paperwork on my desk. I’ll return it to him this afternoon. I. Am. Going. To. Austria.

I’ve never traveled overseas before. In fact, in 32 years, the only foreign soil I’ve ever trod upon is in Canada. This trip is a little expensive, considering my recent acquisition of a mortgage, but I guess I’ll just have to cut into my first time homebuyer’s credit a bit. After all, it’s far less expensive to travel with this tour group than it would be to travel independently. I’m also not likely to just randomly make plans to visit Europe, so this invitation is the impetus I needed to spur me to action.

The group will fly to Germany, spend one night in Munich, and then travel to Salzburg and Vienna over the course of the next week or so. You may be wondering, “Why would you want to go to Austria, of all places, BRP?”

First, I speak (or spoke, in past years) pretty decent German. I took two years in high school and three years in college. Time to start brushing up, I guess.

Second, my family is of mostly German heritage. While Austria isn’t Germany, exactly, it’s right next door…and I’ll have that one night in Munich to breathe the air of my forebears.

Third, this is in Salzburg:

Yes, I believe I'd like to go there.

Fourth, this is in Vienna:

It's the fountain of Pallas Athena at the Austrian parliament building. I believe I'd like to go there, too.

So. From March 11-18, don’t expect to hear from me. I’ll be otherwise engaged.

I’ll tell you all about it when I get back. Promise.