Austin, Texas is not Texas at all. Anyone will tell you this. Austin is a made-up bullshit place that’s just too good to be true. A hippie cab driver drove me to the hotel, screaming about Bush and tugging his beard the whole way, and the bouncer at the bar we went to (his name: Tank) hugged me goodbye, and then made his pecs dance, as a friendly gesture. I ate the best BBQ of my whole entire life, drank a ton of beer and bought a cowboy hat.
Austin fuckin’ rules.
I was nervous about Austin, because I’ve never spent much time away from the East Coast, and when I did, it was to visit my sister in San Francisco or Washington State. I had some misconceptions about Texas, I’ll freely admit that. These misconceptions cleared up as soon as I met the hippie cab driver at the airport. However, I had a bad moment there with a flight attendant in Houston, before my fears could be allayed.
They have terrifying smiles, some of the flight attendants, don’t they? I recognize them from when I was waiting tables. It’s the strain of having to be nice to assholes. I imagine it’s worse when said assholes might be armed. Howsomever, this woman had a particularly creepy form of the Frozen Smile, plus a ton of makeup, and she scared me.
“Are y’all home?” She asked me, as I made my way off the plane.
“No, I live in New York,” I told her. “Just changing planes.”
She stretched her grin wider. I thought I saw madness glinting in her eyes, but I might have just been dazzled by all the eye shadow. “Aw, that’s too bad,” She said brightly. “Go, Astros!”
I was too flabbergasted to tell her that I’m not a Yankees fan.