April 19th, 2010
The Week That Was 4.18.10
Weeks where I have to delete/save some of the events and places that I went are the best. Nothing says “Paul, you’re socially saturated” like having too many words in The Week That Was. Consequently nothing is as exhausting. Take my Sunday as an example. I woke up, made coffee, listened to Aziz Ansari’s comedy album, Intimate Moments for Sensual Evening, went to McDonald’s, watched Stanley Cup Playoff hockey, did some photo editing and went to McDonald’s. Yes, I went to McDonald’s twice. Don’t judge me.
My life is all about regression. Progress is overrated. All the money lies in nostalgia anyway, so I feel like I’m on the right path to the riches that a tarot card reader once promised me.
Eating habits are the newest way for me to tap into the younger version of Paul. Sure, my mom only made me grilled cheese with a slice of white American in between buttered white bread. But just seeing the words “grilled” and “cheese” on a menu are enough to get me aching for the days of summer back when mother used to do my laundry (note: sometimes she still does…) and all I had to worry about was making sure I tied my bathing suit tight enough.
On Tuesday, I continued my journey into the world of the Houston grilled cheese. Cafe Brasil’s version is served on sourdough, with grilled tomatoes and pesto. On the side come homemade, thick, ultra-crispy potato chips. An adult deserves a grown-up grilled cheese even if I tend to act like a fourth grader most of the time.
Follow the White Rabbit
When I bought the album It’s Frightening, I tried to give it to my friend so that he could burn it. Handing it to him as he sat on his couch with his laptop in front of him, I urged him to take a moment and accept my gift. You see, my friend is impossible to motivate, and on that day he displayed this character flaw in spades as he got distracted by a DVR’d episode of Glee and missed out my benevolent present.
Fast forward a few months. We’re walking from my friend’s house, just south of Washington and TC Jester, to Walter’s. My friend says, “man, I should have downloaded that White Rabbits album when I had the chance.” This is what I like to call “beggar’s remorse.”
The White Rabbits made their first ever tour stop to Houston playing to an almost-sold-out crowd at Walter’s on Washington. The quintet did all in their power to bowl over the crowd with thunderous drums. That’s what you expect from a band that keeps an extra drummer on retainer and doesn’t hesitate to use him liberally. They had the crowd frothing and clapping, forgetting who exactly the opener, Here We Go Magic, was; even though you could have made the case that HWGM played a better executed set.
[Check out our Flickr Photo Set of the gig]
Pick Your Poison
The easiest watermark for how productive my weeks are can be measured by how many nights I linger at the bar until someone shouts “last call” during the work week. With that in mind, this week was either my most or least productive week of 2010. Thursday was the only night that I saw a barfly’s worst nightmare: the house lights flooding an otherwise perfectly muddled scene.
I had to make a trip out to Poison Girl for a “moving away party.” The bar, crowded for a Thursday, offers its fair share of blinking, beeping, and ringing distractions with the pinball machines lining the wall. A friend and I ended up getting pulled in by their flashy gravity and cut ourselves off from the group, who’s company we were supposed be enjoying for one last time. Everything went smoothly until we got the signal that it was time to leave and find a new party: my friend elbowing his Lone Star from it’s precarious perch on a neighboring pinball machine.
Tabs closed and glass swept up, we made our way down the street to (where else) Anvil Bar & Refuge for the undeniable night cap. Chatting with Mindy is always welcome release from the random dude that keeps trying to tell you about how his apartment was broken in on Christmas because you happened to mention you were carrying your camera only to keep it from being break-into-the-car fodder.
Who’s the Man Now, Dawg?
Charity is a good thing. Charity served with a couple ice cold beers is a great thing. Jayme (of Road Show Blondes, Charity Chicks and Twitterocity fame) told me to come out to The Lot on Washington Avenue for a date with some doggies on Saturday afternoon. Ten dollars for a couple beers and spending a day with some pups doesn’t seem like such a bad idea when you’re wondering why you turned down a ticket to the Dynamo game.
I shot Marc a message telling him to head up to the bar around 1:00PM with his girlfriend and dog with the “mad scientist’s” coat. Name a breed and it came through the doors on Saturday. From Vizlas to Mastiffs, four-legged friends abounded. The Lot was the perfect venue for the event. Half indoor, half patio with finished concrete floors inside for easy clean up, the afternoon went off without a hitch, especially if you’re a guy who loves to hear the cacophony of barking for three hours like I am.
The event was being held to raise money for the Texas Hearing & Service Dogs foundation. With the generous turnout it would seem that the Charity Chicks were able to write a decent check to the non-profit. Though, if you missed the doggy reunion on Saturday you can still donate online.
Whereas last week was dominated by the theatre scene, this week was all about the live music. Tuesday night was the White Rabbits, Friday eventually led me to Shoeshine Charlie’s Big Top where Mike Stinson happened to be playing, but the main event was Saturday where Lance Smith and the Repeat Offenders were headlining their first show at Rudyard’s. I told anybody and everybody about the show and managed to recruit about a dozen people (minus a few turncoats) to hit up the bar on Waugh for some live tunes.
It was all Lance all the time from 10:00PM through the wee hours of the morning. The guitar virtuoso played with each of the two opening acts on the ticket before taking the reins of his own trio. It was a night of underground Southern rock-n-roll at its finest.
The cover was only eight dollars for the night, a fee that the man working the door was happy that I paid. “Thanks for not being another dickhead photographer,” he said to me as I reached for my wallet. “We had a guy come in here last week that was refusing to pay just because he had a camera and worked for some publication.” If I would have known I could have thrown around the weight of my cameras and tripod maybe I would have pulled the indignant journalist card as well. These are things I need to know!