Meet Up Mixup

Quite a few of my friends have dropped the "meetup" concept in my lap over the past few months. One of my good friends actually met someone (someone he began dating shortly afterward, I believe) through a meetup.

In other words, the idea has been positively referred to me from multiple sources. For me, this is a good thing. It spurred me to research them here in Houston. I found a few that I was interested in and, earlier this week, I joined one for concert goers.

A few people wondered why join one here in Houston when I am moving to Austin in such a short time.

My response: Why not? It's not like I won't be back here in Houston on a somewhat regular basis. And, it is a networking opportunity, if nothing else.

As much as I have had to endure it, I always feel self-conscious and conspicuously out of place when I go out alone. I have blogged about my feelings on this topic more than once before. Not sure why I should continue to feel like this. I keep thinking at some point it will become second nature.

Yep...but not tonight.

The venue was a place called Fitzgeralds in Houston. Dark, worn, loud, marginally claustrophobic (or it could have been with more people there). Just the way it should be. 

Scattered loners, just like me, wander around or plant themselves at the bar. They try to look like they belong, try to fit in. I can't help wondering who they are waiting for? What is their reason for being here solo? Then, I figure they are probably thinking the same about me. Or maybe not...

Everyone who comes in during my short 45 minutes of warming the stool is, in my mind, a potential "meetup" groupie.

I approach one guy who is sitting at the bar. He kind of resembles the website picture of the organizer.

Me (at the bar, ordering my second Shiner Blonde): "Your name wouldn't happen to be Brad, would it?"

Him: (pause, for a little too long): "Nooo..."

Me: "Oh, OK. I am supposed to meet a guy named Brad here."

I finish the last mouthfuls of my first beer, swig my second, then turn and walk back to my table.

Of couse, you know that as I walk away my brain is processing that scenario like meat through a grinder: Why his pause? It's a simple question. Did he think I was some psycho? Was he running through his chances of hitting on me? Was he gay and not used to women approaching him? Was he just not in the mood? Was he waiting for someone named Brad too?

No matter. He wasn't my type, and he certainly didn't have the personality to make up for it. Cruel, but true.

Back at my table for one, it suddenly dawns on me that I don't even know what band is playing. There are so many "band" members milling around, some carrying guitars, that I figure something must be starting soon. I look around but there is no indication of who "they" are...until one of the "band" members starts pouring and sorting merchandise out on a table. Even in the darkness, it isn't difficult to see their name: We Were Wolves. They are all identifiable by the matching tattoos on various part of their bodies. If you ever see someone with this tattoo, you can now identify them!

I really wanted to hear their music. If they had begun playing right then, I probably would have stuck around despite the "date" with one of my besties to go see Men in Black 3.

But waiting is not my thing. And I could Google them later. By this time it is already 8:40p. So much for punctual...on the part of both the band and the members of my supposed "meetup".

Another solo experience...another notch on the loner belt. Man, that belt is getting long.

As I walk to my car, I wonder about this whole "meetup" thing. Mixup? Misunderstanding on my part? Flaky people who probably arrived after 9 in an effort to be "fashionably late"?

Who knows....I will give it one more try here in Houston. After all, I am arriving solo, so no substantial difference if I end up solo at the end.

Just chalk it up to another experience.

Poisoning of the Mind

"Peoples minds are like deep wells full of sweet water."

This quote comes from The Eyes of the Dragon by Stephen King.

Stephen King has always been one of my favorite contemporary authors, if not at times my favorite. Up until now, I could never really tell you why. I just liked his stories.

After re-reading this novel, I now know why: I like his stories. I like the way he tells his stories. I like his characters and how he weaves them so intricately together.

But, most importantly, I like the messages he delivers.

Sure, he has become somewhat macabre and dark as time has marched on. As a writer, I can tell you that some of that comes from inside where part of him feels macabre and dark. Way down deep....

Like the bottom of a well....his well.

I read The Eyes of the Dragon many years ago. In fact, it was probably the book that initially turned me on to Stephen King. My father had suggested it to me. When I read it (way back when) I was young and inexperienced. I read the words at surface level because I had little experience to give them the life and depth with which Mr. King had probably written them. Again, just a good, engaging story.

Re-reading it as an adult has been enlightening and a completely different experience. Chapter by chapter I found snippets of phrases and words that seemed to speak to me on my level and where I am at now.

The previous quote is one of many that hit me hard. Poignant, transformational, yet subtle references to many issues with which I deal now.

We all have a well. And I believe the Divine intent of that well, of its very contents, is sweet and precious.

But "sometimes, when a particular thought is too unpleasant to bear, the person who has the thought will lock it into a box and throw it into that well. He listens for a splash...and then the box is gone. Except it is not, of course, because even the deepest well has a bottom."

The presence of the box in the depths contaminates the water of the well. In any body of water, the things that litter the water sink to the bottom where they can no longer be seen. But those items are still there. If they are not removed, they decay and rot.

"The caskets those evil, frightening ideas are buried in may rot, and the nastiness inside may leak out after awhile and poison the water."

You have all seen what things look like when they have been in the water for too long. From skin, to tires, to cans, to bottles, to medical waste...everything decays. And decay means poison of some sort. If the body of water is large enough, it might be able to sustain itself and its life flow even with the poison floating through it. Even more so if the water is flowing and moving, receiving new water and sending out old.

"The nastiness inside may leak out after awhile
 and poison the water."

The worst decay occurs when the water is stagnant, no flow in or out, no movement, and rotting things in rotting containers sitting at the bottom unknown and unattended.

As it can be with the well of the mind, of the soul. Sometimes it seems easier to just not deal with the thoughts and issues that are too painful. Easier and less painful to put them in a casket and shove it down. Forget about it as it disappears into the depths and is covered over by the day-to-day chaos of life.

Just as the poison of the decaying casket seeps into the water and pollutes it, sometimes irreversibly, the poison of unattended pain and confusion seeps into the mind and the soul and comes out in many destructive ways. Destructive not only to the individual, but to the people and situations that the individual finds herself in. Feeding upon itself, multiplying, intensifying.

Mr. King took this concept one step further with "When the well of the mind is badly poisoned, we call the result insanity." Yes, that is the end game....the final play after the poison wreaks havoc with everything we once held dear.

Everyone has a choice: to create a mind and soul full of rotting things and the poison it creates, killing everything around.OR to create a mind and soul full of freedom and beauty, that impacts others in a positive enriching way, and are testaments to the intent of the Divine creation of man.

In other words, which would you rather be? The dead pond with the floating, bloated fish and other decay from which you want to turn away....or the clean, inviting clear water in which you can see the ripples and in which you want to swim.

Everything is a choice.


I could never understand why my father would read books more than once. Just like I could never understand why he underlined, highlighted, and otherwise took notes in the margin of every book he touched. Even his bible was annotated.

I now understand. Clearly.

What does this all mean? If you have gotten to the end of this post and not fallen asleep yet, I don't need to explain, or at least I hope my message is clear:

• Don't play around with painful thoughts. Deal with them head on. Otherwise, they turn into rotten things that make life miserable. Playing with rotten, poisonous things is not fun and can be even more painful and destructive, not to mention icky.
• Read books more than once, if you have the chance. But do it over time so that the framework that is established in your mind through your experiences is structurally sound enough to eke out every bit of meaning from the words you read.
• Apply what you read if it strikes a chord.

If you have not gotten this far, than I guess you have some homework to do.

You Know You're Getting Old

OLD
OLD
OLD

I know you don't want to hear or see that word. I don't either. But it is a fact.

We are all getting old. OK....maybe not old but older. Than we once were. The word "old" seems so finite and brings to mind the wrinkly geezers that I used to see down in Florida at my grandma's condo. We used to visit every year when I was a kid. I know the geezers are still there because 30 some years later, whenever I visit Florida, dammit if those geezers aren't still hanging around.

As we are getting older, the oblivion of childhood, of high school and college days, is fading further off in the outskirts of our memory, retrieved only during times of duress when dealing with the necessities of raising our high school and college age children.

M-e-m-o-r-i-e-s....yes, Barbra, where are you, sweetheart?

I have blogged once or twice about the onset of age and how I hate to fear it but love to fight it. In my head, I am only half my chronological age. But, let's face it, I can think I am a certain age all I want but eventually I will lose that edge.

But, where is that edge? How is it measured?

Here are some touchpoints that I have begun to use.

• You have been there, and done that. The t-shirt with that motto was made for you.
• You have gained patience. (please see the not-so-small print at the end of this)
• Your arm is not long enough to hold the reading material at the distance that will allow you to read it clearly. Time for reading glasses.
• Your bedtime is your bedtime. NO exceptions.
• You think twice about getting out on the dance floor, even after a few drinks.
• Your daughter more than occasionally feels the need to sheperd you in the search for appropriate fashion.
• You use the term "When I was your age..." far too frequently.
• Your best friend tells you that you are old (with a smile, of course).
• Your kids have been telling you for years that you are old. Somehow it was OK to ignore them, then.
• You think twice about wearing a bathing suit.
• Re-runs of bygone TV series sport clothing and hair styles that you wore at one point and you thought were very stylish. They were....then.
• Your tweezers are your new friend.

There are more. And, they are subjective. Each of us will have a different perspective on what it means to grow older.

The one I like the best is a link that I shared on Facebook a few days ago. It is irreverent, pragmatic, and oh so true: It's not that you build patience as you grow older. You just don't give a crap anymore.

This allows us "old" folks to live out loud, to live real, to live for what and who we are. Damn everything and everyone else.

Here's to growing older....and BETTER!

Mr. Toad's Wild Ride

If you have ever been in a cab in either a new or a familiar city, you know that you are putting your hands into someone else's hands. Not only in terms of having to trust the cabbie's driving experience and instincts, but also in terms of trusting that the cabbie is not only going to know his way around the city but will take you there straightaway. No fanfare, no unrequested side trips, no convoluted paths meant to hike up the cab fare and line his pocket.

Really, you have no choice unless you want to walk, drive your own vehicle, or sample the local mass transportation.

The only city in which I have ever taken a cab and felt that my trust was rewarded, on all fronts: London. London cabbies are polite, knowledgable, safe, and trustworthy.

The cabbies of New York City are the exact opposite. Rude, unsafe, risk-taking, shadowy characters who try their shenanigans on the innocent tourists as well as on the locals.

As you can see, my experience with cabs and cabbies spans both ends of the spectrum. From the surface, it seemed like the cab system in New Orleans was organized and on the level. No reason to expect anything but the norm.

...until we got into the cab with Mr. Toad, who proceeded to take us on a wild ride.

Let me first paint the scene.

We had been at Jazzfest all afternoon. We were tired, hot, sweaty, and just wanted to get back to the house to clean up and hang out. When we left the venue and saw the crazy, long line for the organized cab service, we decided to walk the 3 miles back to the house. I had blisters on my feet, so this was extreme...but we both decided we would rather be moving than standing still. I could apologize to my feet later.

Ten minutes later, after having missed a turn, we realized we were not headed in the right direction. The map on the GPS didn't help at all. Do you see a pattern forming here? We turned in what we thought was the right direction but neither one of us was 100% sure.

And then, we saw a cab....and another. The first one waved us off even though his light was on and he had no one in there. That should have been our first clue of trouble.

The next one was reluctant to take us but did, with a brusque attitude. OK...and within a few seconds, he was putting someone else in the van and yelling at us to move to the back of the van.

As he was doing this, he was looking around nervously.....like he had found trouble and was doing something wrong.

In hindsight, this should have been our second clue.

What ensued was a ride with Mr. Toad, who hardly spoke or understood English. Now, neither one of us had too much of an idea of where exactly we were, but when we started seeing the same landmarks and the same intersection, not once, but twice, we figured we were moving in a circular motion. Then, we noticed that the meter was not on.

The real panic, combined with the need to exit immediately, didn't really hit hard until a couple tried to flag Mr. Toad down. Just as the woman was about to get in the van, he began pulling away. The reason? There was a police car in the other side of the intersection. He pulled across the street into the left lane, and made a u-turn going back the way we came, only to pull over about 2 blocks up to pick up what looked like too many people to fit in the remaining seats in the van.

We were stuck in the back of the van. What could we do? So, 4 young women start to get in. Then, a man moves to the back and opens up the rear doors in order to put his suitcase in. Mr. Toad starts yelling at him in some half-intelligible language, trying to tell him he can't get in because there is no more room. As he is yelling his garbled message, he is still nervously looking around. The guy starts yelling back at him. Then, Mr. Toad gets out of the van and hustles to the back.

All I could see on that horizon was police and trouble...

By the grace of God, I guess, the angry man moves away with a last nasty word and hand gesture and Mr. Toad gets back in the van. He turns up the music, blasting a form of nasty dance music to appease the pretty girls, attemps to turn on the A/C but it only blows hot air. The vents are down at our feet. So, as our feet and ankles are roasting, we are held hostage by Mr. Toad, who is rocketing through the streets of New Orleans headed we knew not where. I can't speak for my friend, but if I had been near enough to a door at low enough speeds I may have considered dropping and rolling just to get off the ride.

We hoped Mr. Toad was heading in the direction of the address that we gave him, but found out that he was instead heading to the French Quarter.

Needless to say, we got off of Mr. Toad's wild ride a block away from Bourbon Street and headed to Pat O'Brian's for a hurricane, dinner, and a peace. Ironic that after Mr. Toad's wild ride through the streets of New Orleans that we could find solace on Bourbon Street.

Crazy, but we gave the NOLA cab system another try not 2 hours later and were pleasantly suprised by the courtesy and professionalism of the cabby. He filled us in on the whys and hows of our previous experience with Mr. Toad, confirming our belief that Mr. Toad was clearly breaking the law by doing what he did.

Cabbing it in NOLA will always bring Mr. Toad's wild ride to mind; in fact, cabbing it anywhere will forever be tainted by those moments. But, in the end, we arrived back safely to continue our night with our friends.

The Other Side of Bourbon

Bourbon Street, that is.

What did you say? What other side?

Exactly.

Until last weekend, I didn't know there was another side either. I thought that every time I visited New Orleans, and made the decision to risk a night in the French Quarter, that I was forever doomed to hassle the drunk tourists shoulder to shoulder in skanky, slimy streets. Streets littered with all forms of trash and filth; sidewalks overflowing and sputtering with the homeless, the lost, and the forsaken. Yes, and the tourists trying to blend into the debauchery in their gloss and polish. In their effort to try to blend in, many times they end up becoming a part of it.

Thanks to the daughter of my hostess, my friend and I were initiated into a new experience, a fresh perspective. We became privy to the other side of Bourbon Street: Frenchmen Street.

Getting there was half the fun, I think. Armed with Bourbon Street's Strongest drink in big ass stryrofoam cups, we ventured up Bourbon street, through the gay section, past a very deserted section where no tourist would dare tread. Oddly, I did not feel unsafe; instead I was anticipating what we were about to experience.

Just when we started wondering how much further we were going, we began to hear the beat and vibes of music and street life. More people were converging and moving with us. Soon, there were more people. Not the drunken throngs of Bourbon Street, but the self-assured meandering of people who know an area and are familiar with it.

The complete antithesis of the canvas of Bourbon Street: we were among the locals. 

Or at least that is how it felt, almost immediately. Comfortable. More restrained, if that is even an adjective one can use about anything in New Orleans.

Don't get me wrong. It was crowded. And it was loud. But it was not the chaotic crowd and din of noise that exists down below in the bowels of Bourbon Street. Somehow it even felt cleaner, if only because of the absence of the girls and peepshow entrances that are thrust out on Bourbon Street. Or, maybe I just didn't see them.

We stepped into a colorful bar on the corner and listened to some music. I wish I had gotten the name of the band that was playing because their music was fresh, balanced.

Down the street was an open air market where vendors hawked their trinkets. Unique trinkets in their eyes. Unique in mine as well, until I began to think about 10 years down the road and how a trinket from a craft show has a way of becoming old and faded over time. 

Lights were strung above like a starry canopy.  

It was late, by many standards, and my feet were swelling. We turned back toward Bourbon, back into the bowels. But, somewhere along the way we made the right turn at the wrong time and ended up, at 2am, turned around and wandering in search of the right direction to our car.

Rest assured, our wandering was not aimless. Through the help of a few passers-by and a good sense of direction, we found our car.

For a brief moment, we became locals. I envisioned myself in and around the streets, heading back to one of the quaint bungalows with their brightly colored porticos and worn, comfortable facades.

And, as "locals", we got another view of areas of The French Quarter that most tourists never see.

Isn't that what travel is all about? Seeing and doing things like the locals, experiencing the local fare and flare of life. Being able to see a place from the inside out, instead of the veneer as presented by travel books and guides.

For a brief moment in time, becoming a local. If only in your own mind.

Thanks to my friend and her daughter for a refreshing look at a cliqued venue...and for a truly local experience.

If you are ever in New Orleans and would like to experience this as well, here is a link to more information. It is not to be missed!

Frenchmen Street in The French Quarter.

The Bar Scene

After last night, I am wondering if maybe I do still have it. I am also wondering whether I really want it.

My daughter started her new job last night as a server at a local bar and grill. It is not what I would want for her, but it is a choice she has made for herself. Therefore, I feel the need to support her. More than that, I feel the need to check up on her.

So, I decided to crash opening night last night. She knew exactly what I wanted to do, and why. That's just how we roll. I don't pull punches with my kids. They know where I stand; I know where they stand. A beautiful, symbiotic relationship.

Well, at least it works for us.

I showed up at about 8p to a packed house ~ 80% male. Standing room only. I made my way to the end of the bar, exactly what I told her I would do.

I had no expectations and, honestly, in that atmosphere I imagined I would be simply a shadow. And, I was OK with that. I do not consider myself very social, particularly with people I don't know. Most often, I just like to watch people...and that is what I was prepared to do.

No seats at the bar, unfortunately, so to order my beer I had to wedge myself in between 2 guys. A smile and some conversation achieved that just fine. Within 5 minutes of talking with the guys to my right, one of them was offering me his seat.

Hhmmmmm.....he was just being chivalrous. Probably already under the influence. Shortly after that, within about 5 more minutes, the 3 of us had exchanged names and were discussing...well, the topic didn't really matter.

Within 5 more minutes, I knew where they are from, what they do for a living, where they live. Only a baby step from that to discussing travel, excercise, football, the death of Willie Nelson and its impact on the economy of Texas....

....stuff like that. Then, one of the guys left, my daughter came by and said 'Hi', the other guy went to the bathroom.

What did I do? I turned to the 2 guys on the left with whom I had briefly chatted up when I first sat down. This guy, seeing me order my Sam Adams, tried to convince me (while he was drinking his free Miller Lite...eeewwwww) that the Sam Adams Summer Ale is the best. OK? I proceeded to go through 20 questions to figure out how he could be drinking Miller Lite and be a beer connisseur. It just did not make sense to me.

Of course, his "friend" piped in and before I knew it the 3 of us were bantering away about new babies, teenage kids, and the fact that they had been drinking the free Miller Lite and were on about 7, no 8....

We spent an inordinate amount time trying to guess each other's ages. They were way off on guessing mine, fortunately in the right direction, until they asked my daughter. My daughter is proud of the fact that I look so young but I hate that she gave it away. I would much prefer they continue in the dark with that one.

You get the picture. More guys joined them. The guys at one of my daughter's tables bought me a Sex on the Beach shot and queried me about advice on girls and growing up. They wanted a quick, short, all-encompassing quote from me.

I disappointed them when I said such an animal does not exist....believe me. Moreover, nothing I say or write is ever "quick" and "short".

The landscape changed when my friend showed up. The Miller Lite guy wanted to know almost immediately whether or not he was my husband, boyfriend. WTH? He had a hard time believing me when we both chimed in NO, just friends. And it is his business how?

I guess the answer to whether I still have it, whatever it is, is yes. I can still play the social butterfly in those circumstances. I can still be marginally attractive to the opposite sex. I can still be the recipient of free drinks. I can still have fun.

But, I couldn't help thinking of myself as a stale piece of candy amid a swarm of bugs. I was nothing special in that environment. There were so many of them, and so few sweet things to land on. It was simply a lack of viable options.

Add the alcohol to the mix. Add the question of why are those guys at that bar, how often do they do this, etc. Probably not the type of attention I want.

This will not stop me from checking up on my daughter. In the process, I will end up honing my skills; skills which might get me somewhere, at some point, with a man who will be worth my effort and view me as his choice instead of a result of lack of options or, worse yet, just a plaything.