• Tag Archives Houston

  • “That is the behavior people take under the pressure of survival, … This is misconstrued as looting, as thievery.” Benigno Aguirre

    Posted on by The Thousand Yard Stare Comment

    One of the things that I don’t think I’ve ever written (or blogged) or committed to paper is getting mugged….or robbed….when I was a teen. Pretty much I wonder each time I think about it, was I really mugged? I mean, I know I was robbed, but was I mugged AND robbed? Or just robbed?

    The literal definitions:

    Mugged: to assault or menace, especially with the intention of robbery.

    Robbed: to take something from (someone) by unlawful force or threat of violence; steal from.

    I remember seeing my father after he was mugged. It was the mid 90’s and if I remember correctly a dude on PCP tried to steal his girlfriend’s purse. That dude beat the HELL out of my dad. His face was all bruised up. My father apparently punched the guy in the nuts repeatedly – which had no effect (PCP) but that is what I would call a mugging.

    My story was different.


    It was 1989 or 1990? It was about 5pm – full daylight.  Wing Stop was a bank. Little Caesars was at the end of the strip, where the liquor store is now. I parked in spot A (when it was a spot to park), the ATM is at point B. The timing was pretty crazy.  I took out twenty or forty bucks out of the ATM. Right as I’m heading back to my car, out of the corner of my eye, a car pulls up to spot C and some dudes get out. One of them drops something that kind of goes “clank”. I’m naive and don’t think anything about it.

    As I’m reaching to put my wallet in my back pocket (left pocket), I feel something at the back of my head.  My first thought is “Uh, what?” as I (slow motion) look to my left, there’s  a guy immediately next to me with his arm behind my head – and he says, “Give it up.”  With the hand not holding a gun, he motions for my wallet and my keys. Let me tell you, what they say about adrenaline, etc, I dropped my wallet into my lap. I froze. You tend to do that when you’ve got a gun to your head.

    He took my keys, and my wallet. Then he and his lookout sauntered back past the ATM (past a completely oblivious guy taking money out) and drove off.

    So, I was pretty freaked out. Um, so was my date. Oooops. It was going to be pretty much our first date. Don’t ask me why I didn’t go get cash before the date. I am an idiot.

    We got out of the car (since it obviously wasn’t going anywhere when those dudes took my keys).  The guy who finished getting his money as the robbers drove away, turned. I said, “We just got robbed!” He looked surprised, and not knowing what to do just hightailed it out of there. So, we went to Little Caesars and called the police.

    The police were nice, took my statement (I think. I don’t actually remember now). He dropped us off right down the street at Barney’s Billiards (one of my old haunts).  The bartender offered me a shot of whiskey to calm my nerves. I didn’t take it.

    Nobody was around my house, so I called my friend Brian.  We decided since we had nothing else to do, we were going to go find something to eat.
    Welllll, he needed cash. So. Uh. We went back to the ATM.

     

    ……

     

    Okay, so my car is sitting there, (locked) and he gets his cash and we go eat.  I think we went to BIBAS (One’s a Meal) – back when it was on Memorial.  A few hours later my dad and I picked up the car with the spare key.  I have to retell my idiot story several times.  Everyone at my Toy Store job thought I was nuts (and we had to change all the locks). The police came to the Toy Store a few days later to ID the alleged/possible gunman.

    Looking at a lineup of pics, I couldn’t ID the guy to save my life, but they said afterwards that they know who the driver of the car was (who didn’t happen to be the guy who actually robbed me).  And that was pretty much the end of it. Never heard anything ever again.

     


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  • “It really all started with New Orleans.” Ginny Bishop

    Posted on by The Thousand Yard Stare Comment

    Since I actually don’t get out much, I’m pleased to say that thanks to the burlesquers, they introduced me to a really cool dive/not dive bar that I really like out in Deep Ellum.

    The Black Swan Saloon outwardly is a non-descript end of one of the strips, across from Trees and next to La Grange. The first time I went in, I wasn’t even sure I was in the right place. No signage! (Obviously stolen image from google, since there’s a watermark right in the middle. I digress)

    Once you get inside and see the containers of fruit soaking in booze behind the bar, you pretty quickly realize that this isn’t a normal bar. The vibe is cool and Gabe, the owner, is really set on making some really fresh and unique drinks. I’ve read a lot about the cocktail culture in Houston (ala Anvil) And actually, the only reason I thought to write about it was that he introduced me to a new cocktail last time. The Vieux Carre, which translated is “Old Square”.

    Gabe suggested it after I had ordered a Sazerac – which historically is considered the USA’s first cocktail.  I was really impressed that he had the actual Herbsaint absinthe as called for in an “authentic” recipe. The Vieux Carre is a lot like a Manhattan, but a little sweeter. A typical Manhattan has a weird tinge for me, but the Vieux Carre (pronounced “Voo-Car-Ay”) was a lot  smoother and a great sipping drink.

    The other thing I usually drink there is a Pecan infusion – which is bourbon that has had pecans soaking in it. Good stuff.  The atmosphere is really laid back, and I’ve found myself talking to random people who aren’t in my “scene” and generally had a great time.

    Check it out if you’re down in Deep Ellum.


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  • “I’m hot, sticky sweet, from my head to my feet. yeah.” – Joe Elliott

    Posted on by The Thousand Yard Stare Comment

    This morning I regained my sense of smell.

    I’m not sure if it’s temporary, but my sense of smell has never been that strong – or at least not as strong as other people I suppose?

    The only thing I can attribute it to is the massively sugary cake that I made yesterday. The original recipe called for whipped cream, but instead we opted for some homemade vegan icing, of which the primary ingredient is powdered sugar.  After it was all said and done, I fell into a nightmarish sleep reminiscent of the trippy tunnel scene in the original Willy Wonka movie.

    But the reason I think that it affected my sense of smell so much is that it reminded me of one of my first real jobs – Soda Jerk at the 59 Diner.  I worked there back in the halcyon days in the 80’s. Wandering around Houston at that time, you tended to run into a lot of people who jerked (hee-hee) for the 59 Diner. It was almost like a secret club.  From my understanding, the SPRAWL house was right behind it, but I wasn’t cool enough to be running in those circles.

    The name should give it away –

    While the place did have a certain retro appeal then (it was actually a really cool place), it’s changed owners several times since and has lost some/all of the uniqueness that it originally had when I was there. I’d certainly stop by for some fries or something, but I never expect truly greasy diner food any more (which is what made the place so great). It didn’t hurt that it was across the street from Rockin’ Robin.

    Rockin’ Robin holds a special place in my heart, but only because of one of my favorite guitar teachers and a really great friend of mine (who plays for The Guzzlers) put up with my teenage shenanigans there (practice your guitar? What’s THAT?).  I learned a lot and made a lifelong friend. I still recall his response, similar to everyone else’s, when I told him I was getting a job at the Diner, “Really? My friend got food poisoning there.”  I’d love to say that as a young lad I hung out at the feet of the coolest guitar store employees around, but that really wasn’t the case. My experiences in the downstairs store part from that time period were tainted by one of the most bitter, washed-up, ex-roadie guitar player/store employees named Dennis.  I kid you not here’s a sample exchange between myself and him:

    Me: “Hey, uh, what does a flanger do?”

    Dennis: (looks annoyed) “It flanges”

    I sheepishly walk away.

    This isn’t to say that exchange today might not be somewhat similar to any Guitar Center these days, but Dennis seemed to just go out of his way to be an immense prick.

    Anyway, back to the ’59.  These days, when people ask for a full resume including EVERY job that I’ve EVER had, I make sure to include the Diner and pad my resume with such things as “Extreme time management” and “Made custom desserts to order”. In all actuality, there’s not much padding. That job is certainly one of the toughest I’ve had.  Working in food service is a special circle of hell – one of which I’ve  managed to escape from a few times now. Some of the recruiters have joked with me about it, but typically only because they’ve worked food service too – so they understand the “battle” mentality of an understaffed dinner rush.

    Photo by Texas.713

    The upshot of making desserts in such a time-stressed environment is that my sense of smell and taste were severely jacked up. The entirety of the time I worked as a Jerk, my diet subsisted of Cheddar Cheese blocks and Pink Grapefruit Juice cocktail.  Coming home reeking of ice cream and whipped cream and syrup was disgusting in its own way.  Soda jerks tended not to last very long, I’m not sure if it was always the trial by fire, or first rung of the ladder kind of deal or not. Typically everyone who jerked eventually hosted or waited tables. I’m sure there was more money in waiting, but I got out as soon as the summer ended.

    Photo by The Rocketeer

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