neverbeencool

Fabulous Mount Hood, as seen from seat 7A on Continental flight 553, non-stop from Houston to Portland. That’s the view you get as you’re flying into PDX from the east, just after sunset on a clear summer day. Purty, huh?

So, I’m home. I’m not entirely deTexasified yet, thought, so we all get to put up with one last post of random thoughts inspired during a week in the Lone Star State. Sorry.

I feel bad for people living in the Central Time Zone. I mean, it’s bad enough that you don’t get the pleasure of living anywhere near one of the coasts, but you also have to deal with the fact that the networks don’t consider you important enough to change the TV broadcasts for you.
See, when I see a commercial for the next episode of Battlestar Galactica, I know that “ten o’clock” really is the starting time. Those poor bastards have to do math and shit, otherwise they end up watching some lame ass Sci Fi original movie when they really just want to know where the Hell Roslin, Baltar, and that Basestar ended up.

Of course, there’s a plus side: they don’t have to stay up as late to see new episodes of Cathouse 3 and Taxi Cab Confessions.

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Clinton mentioned in the comments the other day that other Texans kindly call the part of the state I was in “East Jesus.” Takes about three seconds in town to figure out why. Just like Portland boasts more strip clubs and microbreweries per capita than any other city in the entire Buffyverse, I’m sure East Texas can make the same claim for Bibles.Case in point. Last time I was there, I had to make the drive from Lufkin to Jasper, about an hour-long road trip if memory serves. During the trip, I counted on that miracle of modern science known as The Scan Button to find me at least one tolerable radio station to help pass the time.

The choices were somewhat limited. Sounded pretty much like this as you scanned across the spectrum:

• Country
• Country
• Jesus
• Jesus
• Old Country
• Jesus
• Pop Country
• Jesus
• Jesus
• 80s Rock
• Jesus
• Country
• Jesus
• New Country

And God fucking help you if missed the 80s Rock station on your way through. JBJ might have given love a bad name, but he saved my sanity.

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I’m a survivor.

I ran to the local Wal-Mart during my trip to pick up a couple of the essentials I’d left behind… some soap, a comb, and a six-pack of Negra Modelo (closest thing to Real Beer you can find in an east Texan Wal-Mart).

Now imagine how I felt when, after peeling off the foil on that first bottle, I realized I didn’t have an opener.

And that the front desk didn’t have one.

And that I’d have to put my pants back on and go to Wal-Mart… again… if I wanted to purchase one.

I tried the hit-the-bottle-with-the-cap-against-the-counter trick, but failed miserably (still hoping I don’t get charged for that chunk that’s missing now…).

I tried the rolled-dollar-bill trick. Not only did I fail to get to the bottled frothy goodness, but I shredded the cash in the effort.

I beat the bottle against every hard object in the room. Nothing.

Then it hit me. I used to be a pro at using a Bic to open beer bottles, but since I quit smoking years ago I don’t carry a cigarette lighter these days. Surely, though, I must have packed something that could fit the bill.

I looked up and there it was, glowing like the fucking Holy Grail in the shabby Best Western potty: my razor. I popped off the blade, turned the bastard around, and jammed the end of the handle under the corrugated cap. A little pressure and some lever-action later and voila! God bless you, Gillette!

And eat it, Bear Grylls. You might know which parts of a rotten camel make the most comfortable bedding, but will that little skill get you drunk, alone in a Texas hotel? I think not.