Alternate title: I would rather hot-glue my elbows together than live in Texas.
A few not-related thoughts on last week’s biz trip to Texas:
- The George Bush Intercontinental Airport in Houston makes me want to slay children in front of their parents. I had an hour to spare between connections, but thanks to IAH’s monumentally bad design, I almost missed my flight. Upon arriving, I asked the gate attendant where my next flight was. “Right now, you are at A14, you need to go to C8. Thataway,” and she pointed down the long concourse hallway. I walked and walked and walked, not racing, but moving quickly. Eventually, signs for “Terminal C” became “Train to Terminal C.” One elevator and several escalators later, I found the train, a chinzy, plastic, electric piece of shit that make It’s A Small World ride at Disney look like a Japanese bullet train. Also, to get to the train, I had to leave security, which means, yes, after finally arriving at Terminal C, I had to go back through security. Fucking Motherfuckers. Now I was hurrying. I threw everything on the conveyor and started to head through the metal detector. On the other side, our nation’s finest recommended I take my shoes off. “If they beep, I’ll take them off.” The didn’t beep. I win. By the time I made it to the gate, they were boarding the last rows. Basically, I almost missed the flight for no other reason than the Houston airport itself. And since the trip home was exactly the same only backwards, the exact same thing happened again. Plenty of time to spare. Almost missed the plane. I keel you. In the face.
- How to put this nicely … People in Texas are fat. It’s kind of depressing. And when someone from Georgia observes that your state has a weight problem, well, that’s like someone from Georgia observing that your state has a separation of church and state problem, or an SAT score problem. However, if I was surrounded by Mexican food of San Antonio’s caliber, I would probably be a C-cup as well. Speaking of Mexican food …
- Our last night there, a co-worker and I walked from our hotel to a restaurant called Rosario’s where I had one of the best Mexican meals of my life. Per the waiter’s recommendation, I had the carnitas, which was basically a plate full of pork chunks that tasted like they had been slow-cooking since the Clinton administration. Someone’s grandmother was sitting behind me, and when I tasted my side of frijoles, I turned around and slapped the shit out of her. They were that good. The salsa served with the chips was of the chipotle persuasion. Now, I don’t normally dig on chipotle flavor, but this stuff was tits with a side of tits. when we ran out of chips, I poured the rest of the salsa down my shirt so I could suck it out of my chest hair on the plane ride home.
- Following dinner I trailed my coworker, who had expressed interest in “trying to find some trouble,” to a club. Not a bar, not a show, not a bar and grille, but a club. Like, when Outkast says, “We the type of people make the club get crunk,” that kind of club. Hi, my name is Sore Thumb, look at my receding hairline. It was actually four clubs in one, which really only quarupled the cheese factor. I can’t really complain though, because they were only charging me $4 for DOUBLE Makers Mark on the rocks, and the scenery was highly entertaining, which I will explain. In the back of the first floor, there was a pseudo-strip club. There was no stage, rather, the bar was made of poured concrete and there were three stripper poles on it. flinging around these poles were three ladies dressed in skimpy hot pants and T-shirts cut and tucked to the point of being a jersey-knit bra. You know that thing they do in rap videos where the girl shakes her ass like one of those paint mixers at the hardware store? The dancers were doing that in perfect time to the music. Duane tells me this is called “torquing it.” The gimmick is that, when you’re ordering a drink, they are torquing it inches from your face. In addition to her underwear, the girl near us was wearing running shoes and a knee brace. “How’d you hurt your knee” my co-worker shouted. “Soccer,” she replied, and then she torqued it in our faces. “I bet you didn’t learn that playing soccer,” my co-worker added. She rolled her eyes and looked at me. I gave her a dollar.
Upstairs, there was another rap video taking place. We were standing near a wall trying to scheme the path of least resistance between us and the bar, when my coworker asks, “Isn’t that Mark Cuban?” Why yes, it was Mark Cuban, and he and his security detail were heading right for us. He was actually mingling quite effortlessly, and the crowd either didn’t recognize him, or was consciously refraining from mobbing him. As he walked by me, I patted him on the shoulder and said, “Let’s go, Dallas!” He smiled and gave me a thumbs up. I really couldn’t care less about the Dallas Mavericks or basketball in general, but I touched a billionaire and he smiled at me. Yes, I already added it to my resume, right next to “Ties cherry stems into knots in mouth effortlessly.”