Week 2: Honk Fest (and I discover my Nemesis)

Snoctopus Triplets (Monday-Wednesday)

I had a late start on my weekly unbreakable vow due to not being a planner and to being sick. I was also troubled by trying to remember creatures from nature that might match the color of thick infected phlegm hawked up into the bathroom sink at 3AM until I recalled that many species of octopus are experts at creating custom colors. Behold the Snoctopus, also notable for having only seven legs.

I can't tell you if moving to Austin at the start of the SXSW festival while trying to eat nothing but pizza had anything to do with being ill. However, I wanted to vow a more physical vow this week to jumpstart my recovery. At first, I wanted to have an adventure entitled 40 Ounces to Freedom, relating to Sublime – I hadn't heard of the band until I found their CD in the storage closet at Cajun Country Cookers (World Champions), where I busboyed high school senior year. That CD changed my life: believe it or not, but I'd never really patterned my life around music until then. Driving to work no longer meant getting there on time but timing my approach so as to hit all of my favorite tracks on the album.

Even fresh out of college and living next to freight trains in Charlotte, North Carolina, I wanted to recapture that sublime discovery. I thought a neat way to do that would be to drink a 40 right before hopping on one of those freight trains. I've always pronounced it 'fright' train (this, 'bon' instead of bong, and 'I earn' instead of iron are survivors of a bygone era despite taking a speech class in the first grade). Anyway, I did ride several, slow-moving fright trains in Charlotte for short-lived periods but never coordinated that with drinking a 40.

In Austin, there are 40s and trains too! A little more broken, a little wiser, I decided to do a cursory search on trainhopping. I read about this kid who got drunk, hopped a train, and jumped boxcars until he landed on a chuted one that deposited him onto the tracks. The train wheels ripped off his right leg. His friends yelled at him to stay still, but beyond hearing, he tried to sit up and the undercarriage smacked his forehead. He squirmed and his left arm was also severed by the fright train – not an adventure for me.

If not crazy, it'd be downright disrespectful to combine 40s and fright trains. Okay, so I'd do it sober but what then? Where was the challenge, the preparation, the sacrifice? Would I ride for 500 feet, 5 minutes, or 5 days?

With my fevered Tuesday mind I studied the ways of the fright train more closely. This inquiry traced a thread of disdain for the yuppie newcomers treating trainhopping as a quick adrenal fix, a low-budget form of sky-diving. This measured distaste came from seasoned trainhoppers who described the feat as a way of life, 1% excitement and 99% riding the tracks. Yeah, both sides sounded unappealing.

The point for me, for my freedom (whether it came in 40 ounces, a pint, or a measurement unknown), was not to live in harmony with the fright train or harness it to my will. I wanted to beat the fright train at its own game... I do not yet know how to do this.

However, there was one fright train lair known to me; it runs parallel to the Lamar pedestrian bridge. I swear that I've seen it pass once over the water there. Regardless, there are train tracks. I ran in that direction on Wednesday but was still a mile away when I heard its klaxon call. I was weak and had to stop several times to cough up Snoctopuses before walking altogether. The fright train or whatever had made that call was gone by the time I arrived.

Honkerday (Thursday)

As I do on most weekdays, I biked to a cafe, devoting hours of my time to my lucrative web writing career. That morning, I was at the Riverside Starbucks, but by early afternoon I needed a change in scenery, so I biked to the Lamar Starbucks to complete my brainstorm session with a Biology instructor on how we might best use flying, fire-breathing hamsters to illustrate population genetics. All this brought me closer to the Lamar pedestrian bridge once again.

I clocked out at five to ambush the beast. Instead, I spent an hour studying grafitti, sitting on a bench dedicated to 9/11 victims, and reading Ursula Le Guin's “The Left Hand of Darkness” (yet another book of hers that stretches my mind when it comes to sexuality). That hour should've been enjoyable, but dammit the week was half-gone, and I was no closer to completing or even articulating my vow! A line in the book quivered, or perhaps I trembled:

“Fire and fear, good servants, bad lords.”

With the week's earlier sickness, I'd been rushing to uncover the mystery of the fright train. I wanted a drink to think this over. I texted LandLady, a valued and valuable Austin friend who'd rented me a divine little blue house for all of February while I looked for more permanent abodes. She recommended that we go to the Gypsy Lounge to see the unofficial start of Honk Fest. I didn't know what to expect – all she told me was that it involved marching bands.

Walking north, we passed this object stabbed into the earth about a block south of the train tracks running parallel to E. 5^th street. I pulled it free and marveled at the sleek wood, shaped like an ancient spearhead and as long as my forearm. LandLady informed me that it was probably a broken back rung wrenched free from a wooden chair. I wasn't entirely convinced.

At her suggestion, I stuck this wooden treasure in the fence right next to the tracks, planning to retrieve it later should destiny permit.

With the advent of Honk Fest at Gypsy Lounge, I came full-circle to my high school Sublime musical experience. So, what is this Honk Fest? Well, you know those kids who may've not been extremely popular back in high school? Yeah, those kids whose involvement in marching band might have been one of the few worthwhile experiences during those hellish years. Unlike those whose life peaked during high school, they only continued to grow more awesome. And, they stuck it out with their marching band instruments.

The first group, from Boston, was Emperor Norton's Stationary Marching Band (ENSMB). Probably the best description I've heard of their unique sound is gypsy steamfunk. Even sitting down and listening, I discovered that I had hips. LandLady recommended that I amend my weekly vow to follow all of Honk Fest religiously.

The flute girl convinced me. I first beheld this modest goddess as she played with ENSMB. I couldn't decide if her eyes were light green or hazel. I didn't know what it was about the way she carried herself that had me stuck. I can't list the combination of factors telling me that she was self-reserved and shy yet succumbing to a greater joy of self-expression drawing her to the spotlight. But she was there, and I wanted to be too.

Friday (or Friday)

Honk Fest didn't resume until later that evening, so I took advantage of the lull to perform more fright train reconnaissance from my pedestrian bridge perch. On the lower bridge behind me, kayakers were climbing the supports to jump into the river. They shouted at one another that the water was 12 feet deep. In front of me construction workers on a crane did maintenance work on the higher tracks. And the train bridge spanning the river stood empty. I focused on the “Focus One Point BREATHE” artwork on the bridge. The lack of punctuation annoyed me as I pondered the Le Guin line from yesterday (Fire and fear, good servants, bad lords).

I bypassed fire and focused on fear. How could I let it serve me as I learned the rules of the fright train game? Patience and calm, long waiting, seeing. In others words, more than a week.

As I was departing the pedestrian bridge, a train came chugging along the corner from its Lamar roost, but it was only an Amtrak, servant to all people. Still, I stopped to watch, noting its proportions in relation to the rest of the bridge and estimating side clearance.

Honk Fest on Friday took place at two side-by-side venues, the Volstead Lounge and Hotel Vegas. I decided to start a tab each place with two separate cards (that's not excessive at all, right?). While oscillating between the two places, I first spotted the flute girl in the Volstead Lounge carrying a painted trombone. Had my eyes lied? No, she was just that talented. I realized that she was playing in multiple bands.

I alternated between Titanium Sporkestra, from Seattle (Dave, a horn player staying in LandLady's divine little blue house alerted me that they had started out as 100% drums before adding horns), and ENSMB with Bulleit bourbon waiting for me at both places. In the close quarters of Hotel Vegas, ENSMB (especially the flute girl, who didn't have a snare drum attached to her that night) shined a little brighter.

When it comes to dancing, I can be painfully shy and hesitant. My latest role model to overcome this obstacle is the bike messenger from Spaced. But, with bourbon in my belly, I was spinning and clashing imaginary cymbals with the cymbals lady from Minor Mishap, an Austin-based band. As Honk Fest trailed off for the night, I met the blue-haired violinist from ENSMB, a beautiful magnetic artist all unto herself, and asked her about the elusive flute girl. She told me the flute girl was from Chicago and encouraged me to talk to her when I got the chance. I waited for about half an hour but couldn't find her and started to feel like a creeper (solitary, drunk male hanging out near the bar entrance and checking out passerby).

Against my better judgment I fed my restlessness by visiting more bars. I ended up at White Horse, where yes, there are sometimes horses.

On the bike ride home, I hit a guy wire with the left side of my face. I stretched across the sidewalk and took the best picture that I could to chronicle the first major setback to this weekly vow. A block from home, I biked through the Wendy's Drive-Thru. The man at the window informed me that my face was bleeding before giving me free fries.

A Blade of Destiny (Saturday)

Luckily, other than some road rash and a minor cut, my face was relatively unscathed. Plus, I wasn't hungover! Skipping any time for self-reflection, I ate three pieces of bacon and three over-easy eggs housed in a fried jumbo tortilla before biking to the next round of Honk Fest at Adams Park, near 30^th and close to a UT campus. There were four possible spots from which to witness the wonders of Honk Fest, but I stuck close to Trudy's lawn to witness ENSMB and the flute girl. In the sunlight, I noticed that she had an adorably long neck somehow made more interesting by the aviator goggles that she wore pulled up into her bangs.

In happy happenstance, another one of my friends, BioGirl (who works hours you wouldn't believe and is hard to keep up with), was there. I joined her on the Spider House patio (a bar where one of the themes seems to be a peeing child angel) before we set out to watch Young Fellaz from New Orleans. They were easier to dance to and had this sense of cultivated cool that I didn't see in the other bands. My little brother, who lived in New Orleans for about four years, told me that being in high school marching band is considered super cool.

In moving from band to band, I passed by the flute girl and stopped to speak to her, hoping that my voice didn't squeak:

“Excuse me, I just wanted to say that I think you're amazing. You play the flute for Emperor Norton, right? And so much more! I love you, you guys. Thanks for making my weekend.”

She was very nice and politely thanked me before continuing along her mystical path. Only later did I realize what she plays isn't a flute but a half-sized flute, a piccolo I think?

BioGirl introduced me to this shop named ToyJoy, where most of the customers perusing the toy merchandise were in their late 20's or older. It was there that I bought my first miniature hippo.

BioGirl also took me on a tour of that part of town, which I want to come to know better. The turtle pond was of particular interest; it consisted of three pools. While the red-eared sliders frolicked freely in the lower pools, BioGirl told me that snapper turtles lived in the upper pool. We couldn't find these finger biters under the lily pads in the moonlight, but the idea of them reminded me of the fright train, a strange, well-built creature that may lop off body parts.

On the way home, I stopped near the E. 5^th train tracks to see if that mysterious wooden object from Thursday (possibly from a broken chair) was still stuck in that fence. I know that the timing doesn't sound believable, but as I approached the tracks, the bars dropped, red lights flashed, and bells dinged. I snatched my wooden treasure and crouched near the fence, praying for readiness. But the train that approached was a MetroRail, local transit similar to Amtrak. I tucked the strange wooden object into my belt and avoided guy wires the whole way home.

Sunday

This day was marked by a giant parade that started at Pan-Am Park before funneling into Republic Square park. I was a sunburned messenger of joy as I rode from band to band. Minor Mishap formed the rearguard, and their sound was so awesome that they soon had their own trailing parade of bicycles, Segways, and small children. I held my breath as ENSMB crossed the tracks on E. 5^th. Alas, you weren't there, and I just erased 12 pictures from my camera phone that had some of the best parts recorded (I'm either technologically challenged or still learning).

Anyway, I'm still adjusting to the Austin heat (in March it was 80 plus degrees). The parade was supposed to go from about 12:30-2:30, but the dedicated bands continued playing well after five. I had a couple of opportunities to interact with flute (piccolo?) girl. Once was when Young Fellaz band was playing and she was dancing nearby. I felt ungainly in the heat but joined in and struggled to find some rhythm. She'd already moved on by the time I found it. I'd brought the miniature rubber hippo from ToyJoy and wanted to present it to her while saying something along the lines of:

“Life never ceases to amaze, such as this hippo. Did you know that it can sometimes kill crocodiles with one snap of its jaw? Well, in such a way, you've proven with your many talents that music is from the heavens and that lyrical goddesses can walk among us. Please take this and keep lending your light to this world.”

Instead, I wilted in the heat and knew that I had to be some unimportant place by 5:30, so I left. No! This was not a good note to end on – I turned around, withdrew money from an ATM that charged $5.75 per transaction, and biked back to Republic Square Park. The first person that I found from ENSMB was their leader/conductor, who I think goes by Handsome Chuck. I bought both CDs from him and gave him the tiny hippo without mentioning the flute girl.

Well, that's what came of following Honk Fest, which I intend to follow in the future. In that future, the fright train and its many mysteries still await. One more note – I've come to think of broken things as rearranged. What may have once been a broken chair part now has altered potential, yesterday disintegrates into today, and it's time to start a new week.

Week 1: Pizza

Pizza Vow

I don't favor the blind belief that all worthwhile writing must be deep, powerful, significant, that true writing does with words what can't be explained in words. It's too serious to be taken seriously. Thus, to mark my coming of age, my first week in my first place in Austin, I decided to chronicle the simply delicious. I made an unbreakable vow, a promise so serious that to fail it would doom me to a forevermore faithless life.

I decided to eat only pizza for a week. Join me on this journey of endless crust, cheese, and assorted toppings.

The Glorious First Day of My Unbreakable Pizza Vow (or Monday)

If you could eat only one food for the rest of your life, what food would you choose? My answer has always been pizza - versatile yet reliable. I remember reading this young adult book about time-traveling kids. The kids needed flying chips to fit in with the the futuristic crowd, so they ordered a pizza. In the the future, you can order any kind of topping on your pizza, and what is the future but a permutation of the present? Thus, pizza would be the perfect food to eat for the rest of your life.

I started with Home Slice in South Austin. Their motto is “In Crust We Trust”, and their trust is well-placed. With pizza, the sum is greater than its parts, but crust is still the foundation of any worthwhile pizza experience. If you're the type who leaves their crust untouched, leaving a work of art as a pile of dejected breadsticks, then at least try to do it outside where pigeons with more sense can feast on your fabulous leavings. Seriously, go on, get the fuck out on a picnic, and don't forget your non-alcoholic beer and decaffeinated coffee.

For dinner, I did Gatti's pizza near my new place. They have a buffet option, but I went with their large two-topping pizza (pepperoni and jalapenos) and pepperoni rolls. One apt review described it as warm-slug pizza; that isn't necessarily a bad thing, but it was soft food that couldn't be made up for with exciting toppings.

That night, I felt dizzy and nauseous. In tracing the source of discomfort, I realized that I'd fallen for pizza fallacy #1: that it's obligatory to get a meat topping every time you order a pizza. By doing that, I'd consumed close to half a pound of pepperoni with six days still left to go in my unbreakable pizza vow.

Veggie Redemption (Tuesday)

I needed vegetables! I ended up going to Draft Pick, a sports bar in Riverside. They had about 80 big screen TVs (this doesn't count the booths, some of which had TVs embedded in the tabletops to spare people the inconvenience of having to look up from their food). Although, I don't follow or understand sports, I enjoy visiting sports bars to remind myself that there's still plenty I won't understand. Anyway, I got their Every Veggie pizza (mushrooms, onion, olives, jalapenos, and other green stuff).

This place had amazing crust, crispy yet chewy. Unfortunately, the place is planning to change their crust fairly soon. The bartender gave me a free piece of pizza with the new crust – while still decent it lacked that same, subtle crispiness.

This was the best day of my pizza vow. My little brother had driven down with me to help with the move and stay for the week (and humored me by taking photos). We rented stand-up paddle boats on Lady Bird Lake before checking out the nightlife on E. 5^th and 6^th street. Austin is known for its food trailers, and there were two reputable pizza ones on E. 6^th.

The first was Spartan Pizza. During a previous stay in Austin, I had ordered a full pizza from them with elaborate toppings and had been reasonably impressed. I bought two slices: plain cheese and veggie. The veggie was slightly disappointing, since it only came with bell peppers and onions. The meal was tasty but unsubstantial.

Luckily a trailer selling Detroit-style pizza was right across the street. I didn't know what Detroit-style meant, if it tasted like broken dreams and motor oil, but I decided to give it a chance. This squarish, thick pizza jumped to first place in the crust category. You know that almost-burnt fusion of cheese dough that you sometimes find near the edges of more typical crusts? It's salty, crunchy, mind-consuming, and it lined the entire crust of this Detroit-style pizza.

Longing (Wednesday)

I woke with hunger and realized that I didn't know any place in Austin that served breakfast pizza. I lost my patience after Googling possible places for 30 seconds, so I asked several friends for advice.

One of these friends reminded me that cold, leftover pizza is the perfect leftover pizza. This would require forethought to buy enough pizza to have reserves, so it'd have to wait for another day.

My quick fix for that morning was CiCi's pizza buffet. Their pizza had that same warm-slug consistency as Gatti's pizza, but there was also this white film on each piece. Perhaps it was some sort of cheese paste to help the toppings stick. I kept going back for more, but I felt soiled.

My brother and I went to Zax for dinner, where one of our new friends in Austin waitresses. She suggested that I get the pesto base, which was a welcome change with chicken, tomato, and caramelized onion toppings.

Yet, my brother ordered the turkey burger, and I found myself gazing longingly at it between mouthfuls of pizza. This was my first inkling that my unbreakable pizza vow wasn't going as planned.

Pizza Reserves (Thursday)

In moments of hunger and weakness, it was important to have pizza reserves. As Pizza Hut was also rather near my new place, I took advantage of one of their family-sized deals: two large three-topping pizzas plus breadsticks and cinnasticks.

Pizza Hut has had a special place in my heart from early childhood, since that was the place that our Dad would always call for pick-up. I remember riding home triumphant with a warm pizza box secure on my lap during chill winter nights. Plus, with Pizza Hut you get plenty of those brown beauty cheese spots. On old people they're called liver spots, but on pizza they are divine.

I went with bacon, ham, and pineapple on one pizza and mushrooms, onions, and olives on the other. These pizza reserves lasted me all through Thursday and most of Friday. I kept opening and closing the fridge, willing them to turn into something else.

3-Day Confession (The rest of my week)

Pizza, I must confess that I did bend my unbreakable vow.

Most New Year's resolutions won't be kept. Many monks living in silence communicate with intricate hand signals. Old-school Catholics don't eat meat on Fridays. They eat fish.

And I ate a waffle sandwich on Friday.

I was out at the 24 Diner with friends and was going to meet up with you later that night, but one of them offered to buy dinner. My first betrayal had fried eggs, cheddar, bacon, sausage, and brown sugar sandwiched between two waffles and slathered in syrup. I tried to convince myself that the waffles were similar to crust and that it could count as pizza, but I felt in my heart that I had forsaken you.

It's not you, it's – actually it is kind of you. On Saturday, I tried to spice up our relationship by ordering a calzone at Southside Flying Pizza. This closed loop version of pizza is quite refreshing in that it cooks the toppings in a slightly different fashion. I once had a spirited conversation with a Scandinavian bartender in Kansas City about how calzones are perfect for steaming broccoli. This Saturday morning calzone had spinach instead as well as basil pesto, herb ricotta, artichokes, mushrooms, and chicken.

Your close cousin reminded me of your glory, and I thought we were back on track... until it happened again. It was St. Patrick's Day, and I met some Japanese pancakes – think exotic hash browns, onions, herbs and spices. The first one I got (yes, there were two) was topped with finely-shaved, smoked pork belly. While it was closer in consistency to you than the waffle sandwich, it gave me flavors and textures that you could not.

As I pondered my disgrace over an incredible hungover Sunday Chinese buffet, I began to see eating you and only you as a cheesy metaphor for never leaving my comfort zone, for all the new experiences that I'll never have if I want to stay exactly the same.

What if vows weren't made to be broken? What if vows were flexible, organized ways to pursue possibilities instead?

My new unbreakable vow then will be to search for a new experience every week and document the results here each Monday. Thank you pizza for showing me the way – still friends? Anyway, I hope that I can visit you at places like East Side pies, Hoboken pies, and Firefly pies in the future.

As for this upcoming week's experience, I don't know what you are just yet. But, as I find new and better ways to name you, I will escape you with an embrace.