Escaping Houston

So tomorrow I escape the mini mall expanse of Houston, Texas and fly east for the suburbs of Tampa Bay. I thought I'd briefly give the account of one more redeeming feature of Houston. Friday, the day before the seizing, I took the bus downtown and walked south to Montrose, the old part of downtown and current gay district. Well it was definitely gay. My first indication I'd crossed the gay-straight barrier was when some dude in super tight clothing drove by me in an SUV. This would have been nothing abnormal but the fact that he was pumping his arm in the air to the tune of some atrocious 1980's song by a band not unlike Flock of Seagulls. I had lunch at a little cafe that would have been heavily vegetarian in any other gay neighborhood in the states but in Houston every dish had meat but the Bocca Burger. Every male working in the joint did speak with a lisp and I got the feeling they were none too happy with me for not having one.

The find of the afternoon however was a junk store that filled what had once been an expansive auto garage. I didn't get how many bay doors there was but I would say around 6 and inside every square inch of space was filled with what was presumable for sale, though why shoe boxes full of someone's family photos would be for sale I really can't say. There was no room for existing in the shop except for an incredibly narrow path through the junk that did not allow space for two teenage anorexics to pass. There was an incredible assortment of items and I feel like I should list my favorites: an exercise bike from the turn of the last century complete with wooden pedals and a crank to adjust the tension, a neatly organize row of broken tools including hammers with broken handles, knives with broken blades, etc, nearby and also oddly organized and hanging were bungy cords in perfect shape and not the cheap elastic ones. We're talking the high quality rubber bungy's, and to top it off was a greatest hits CD of Robert Earl Keen. The CD I decided was best left there for some other soul to light happily upon.

After this I then met Alec and another friend at a bar with lots of outdoor seating where I filled my belly full of beer in anticipation of the following days adventures. Well, now, I am off to Florida to see what fine adventures I can get myself into there. By God, I just hope a friendly is there to see me seize this time.

Just Call me Julius

So, the day started off pretty good. Alec and I went to the
Waffle House. Houston's 4th shot at redemption. And things
were looking pretty good for Houston. I got two eggs, sausage, grits, and a waffle with coffee and they threw in the cigarette ash for free. Then I woke up for the second time yesterday and this time I was staring up into whiteness. There was a glow flooding me from above and two bald men in white staring down at me intently. It's an odd feeling to wake up with a couple assholes staring at you. But there's not much you can do when you're strapped to a gurney so, hey, you just go with it. I never knew how much waking up in an ambulance was so much like the movies but somebody gets the Oscar for a reason, right? They asked me what my name was and I'm pretty sure I got that one right but I definitely flunked the rest of the pop quiz. "What town are you in?"
Pause..."I don't know"
"What year is it?"
"2008"
"Close enough. It's 2009 but it just changed over."
"Do you know what you were doing before now?"
"No what happened?"
"Have you ever had a seizure before?"
"One. Maybe, we weren't really sure."
The question and answer session went on for awhile, and slowly the day's activities were revealed. I will say that my memory came back way faster this time than the last time. I was still remembering shit days later the last time. Yesterday I got everything back within a few minutes of regaining "consciousness". I say "consciousness" because obviously I was awake, I just don't remember any of it. Generally you don't do your best to kick the shit out of the paramedics on scene when your unconscious. But after they managed to get me calmed down and by that I mean strapped to the gurney, they took pretty good care of me and to the tune of approximately $1,500.
Once we got to the ER that's when the real treatment started. They hooked me up to the heart monitor, set an IV to pump anti -seizure meds into me because hey when it comes to seizures every second counts. You can't afford to let another happen in the next 4-15 years without taking serious precautions. You gotta be on top of your shit. What else did they do? A couple doctors, nurses came in and out and asked me some of the same questions each other already had and the paramedics before them. Then they told me they were going to do a CAT Scan and that's where I said "Whoaaa, bitch." They hadn't strapped me to this gurney yet and I was about to make them pay for their negligence. "How much is that going to cost me?" After much debating and the appearance of a flaming gay, Indian financial employee it was revealed that "Well, we can't really be sure each scan varies in price but anywhere between $2,000 and $4,000." So I kindly said "Fuck that."
Left soon after, and I'm not even sure why I was even there. Apparently some jackass driving by called 911 and the paramedics took care of the rest. Unless injured there isn't any reason for a seizer to go the ER. There isn't anything anybody can really do about it. Get on medication but that shit is expensive. Anyway, total cost of my Saturday afternoon is going to be several thousand dollars, not to mention a sore left tricep, right deltoid, two calves, injured back, and one seriously bit tongue. The downside is I most likely will not be going to South Africa in two weeks. The upside is I got to ride in an ambulance.

Houston Desperately Seeks Redemption

As I bus and walk and meander through the streets of Houston, Texas there are some general trends I have come to notice. And by trends I refer to mini malls stacked upon mini malls, hidden within the nooks and crannies of mini malls, tucked in the cleavage of lingerie stores lurking in mini malls. It has become my mission to seek out that which may redeem Houston in my eyes, if not in the eyes of the mini-mall rats. And so what follows is a work in progress of the redeeming features of Houston, Texas:



1) La Carafe - a shitty little downtown bar. It resides in the oldest commercial building in town built around 1850 and it looks it. The plaster walls are slowly falling apart revealing the brick within, the bar is built stout out of 2 by 8's and carved deep by the knives of many a stranger. Old photos adorn the walls and they only take cash for the beer and wine that they sell cheaply when considering the plush, formal bars that make up the rest of downtown




2) All Stars Gentleman's Club - this one could easily go against redemption. But in reality it is an anomaly and as such provides some sort of strange redemption for a town so lacking in irregularities you'd think it was the backdrop for a Hanna Barbara chase scene. So here we go, for Alec's birthday I decided to take him to a strip joint. Fortunately for us we had a driver. Unfortunately we'd been watching the playoffs all day and I was wearing shorts, sandals, and a wife beater. Perfectly normal, right? Well the high class strip joints of Houston weren't having it. After peeling out past the valet parking we were denied at the door of TREASURES do to my "casual attire". So naturally we went to the Penthouse Club where a door man met us to inform us regrettingly that the Penthouse was closed down temporarily (prostitution) but that the All Stars across the street was the partner joint and all the girls had been employed there. After declining his offered ride across the street in a golf cart we headed over to find our fortune in naked breasts. Disappointment lurked in latex, for though All Stars is a topless bar, nipples are strickly forbidden from being displayed to the innocent eyes of the ne'er-do-wells of Houston. So instead of relishing in the glory of the full, youthful shape and smooth skin of the female form we were presented with breasts encased in worn, flaky, peeling latex leading to what might have been a nipple but just as easily could have been the spent, chewed on pencil eraser lying on the floor of the local elementary school.

To their credit the beer flowed readily and there were plenty of girls walking about including a 45 year old mother of 5 with fake tits, the February Penthouse Playmate, and a not so fresh faced 18 year old. It may have been easy to get a beer but earning a lapdance took way more than just money. Overall, it was a disappointing journey for the the city reknowned for having the best strip joints in the country. Personally, I'd just spend a few more minutes at the porn rack at your local Indian convenience store.



3) "Hello, Boss. Back again, Boss?"

"Yeah, back for more," I reply as I set the 6 pack of 16 oz cans of Red Dog on the counter. He looks at the beer and smiles, "Ahhh, Tea Time."

"What?" I asked.

"Looks like it's Tea Time."

Just the latest reason why my favorite Indian convenience store worker is on this list...Let me count the ways. He's a middle aged slightly pudgy version of the norm. He wears gold jewelry and more than enough cologne to overpower the scent of curry seeping through his pores. He's remembered me since the first day I stepped foot into his domain and he's always got a barely intelligible wise crack about me buying beer before most people have had lunch. He sells beer, a token few snack foods, and porn. Some beer is in six pack bottles, some in 12 pack cans, but the selection is all in 6 packs of 16 oz cans. The food is overpriced and dusty and I'm sure is there to fill a licensing requirement by the city. The porn is ample and hardcore. It fills your standard two shelf convenience store magazine rack. Some I've never seen before and a select few are in combo packs of DVDs and magazines for one low price. Front and center sandwiched between Club, Swank, and Hustler is a signed hard backed copy of a book chronicling the highs and lows of the illustrious career of the Backstreet Boys. I considered taking a picture but feared documentation may sully the purity of the experience.





4) A fourth has yet to have been discovered. Today I head into the heart of Houston's old town which in recent years has become the gay neighborhood. If I return whole, there might be another entry arguing in favor of Houston's redemption.

In Texas Everything is Bigger...Unless You're from Alaska

Yesterday evening I bought a six pack of "Texas" Busch beers with the exclusive intent of getting drunk. I know they were "Texas" Busch beers because the cans proclaimed this proudly to the world. And these weren't your ordinary 12 oz cans of beer. No, these were 16 oz. cans. A full pint bound together with a reinforced plastic bird killer. Everything's bigger in Texas...At the liquor store I couldn't buy 12 oz cans in a 6-pack. Though there was a cooler of individual cans. Just in case you only needed one for the road. So, I grabbed a 6-pack of "Texas" Busch Pints and headed for the counter where I exchanged friendly banter with the middle aged, slightly grey streaked, overweight Indian clerk who inflated my liquor starved and shriveling ego by referring to me as Boss. I refrained from letting him know that in Alaska our Busch beer comes in 40's and we buy it by the case. I thanked him, as much for the Boss as for the beer, and headed across the street to my friend's apartment.

The apartment is surrounded by a steel fence. All entrances are gated and you need a special remote to open said gate. I, of course, don't have such a remote. Thus I rely on timing and old fashioned resourcefulness. Meaning I hang around until someone opens the gate and then I dash through occasionally throwing in an Indiana Jones slide just for good measure. Initially I was worried about the video cameras posted around, ensuring the security of the residents, to catch sight of my loitering and cause trouble to rain down upon me. However, I quickly noticed that the video cameras are not looking out upon the dangerous world, tracking suspicious looking characters lurking near the entrance clinging to 6 packs of "Texas" Busch, but instead are trained within, carefully monitoring the activities of the residents, presumably ensuring noone escapes into the minimall infested streets of Houston.

Once I had maneauvered my way through the gate, I sprinted up the stairs and casually sat on my buddy's balcony. Cracking my first "Texas" Busch beer, I looked down upon the fire station below, which is, unfortunately, the view. I could have done with a swimming pool surrounded by nubile young Houstonian women instead of a helipad, but hey in life you get what you deserve or so say grumpy old white men the world round. So obviously I deserve helipads and middle aged white men sliding down poles. Time for "Texas" Busch 2.

So sat I for the rest of the evening, downing 96 oz. of "Texas" Busch beer. I pondered much about life, desperately seeking the profound. But the only thing I discoverd worth knowing is that through 96 oz. of "Texas" Busch beer it is ridiculously hard to find a buzz.