So it's taken about a week to figure out just what the hell happened to me in Houston...
For those of you who are new to the site, or, like me, have the attention span of a kitten on meth, I'll give you what my MBA-toting friends like to call "
the elevator speech" version.
(Of course, if you're just killing time at work and want the "stairwell to the 47th floor" version, you can always thrill to
the original!)
As George Washington and/or Abraham Lincoln would have wished, Presidents' Day weekend found me headed to Houston, Texas, for the wedding of my girlfriend's friend, a woman who always went out of her way to make me feel small, depressed and/or annoyed at the world.
(Before I start a mad e-mail frenzy, yes, I'm referring to my girlfriend's friend, not my girlfriend - otherwise, I'd be describing a life that eerily matches the lives of those aforementioned MBAs!)
Actually, that's pretty much the crux of the story from last week.
That was a quick elevator ride, no?
I'd re-hash my sidebar rant about The War on Freedom, but it's Sunday evening and I'm still hungover from Thursday, so I'm trying to keep to the point...
The whole trip found me out of sorts.
I'm not much for most weddings - there's something so fake about them, people spend too much on them for all the wrong reasons (wait - I forget - is showing off, just to one-up someone, a good reason?), and they tend to be over-produced, cookie-cutter ceremonies with underwhelming, shortened versions of Pachebel's Canon in D.
Yep. That's the one. Let that song finish, dammit!
I was even strangely edgy about going back to Houston.
Don't get me wrong; I lived in Houston for a couple of years and really enjoyed it.
It's where I learned stand-up comedy (before all the comics left, the clubs began to be managed by meatheads, and the scene collapsed in on itself), it's where I came to appreciate what separates the men from the boys at a bar-b-q cook-off (before I realized I had gained 40 pounds in the process), and it's where I had a good run as a young energy trader (before that whole Enron "thing" demoted energy traders to "peep show squegee guy" status).
Yep, I pretty much left as all the shit was hitting all the fans, but from what I'd heard since then, the fans had cleaned up quite nicely and there wasn't a piece of flying shit in sight.
By all rights, I should have been psyched about the trip, and by all objective accounts, we had a hell of a time.
The open bar withstood the crush of a crowd full of comics, we ate Tex-Mex food seven times in two days, and in the end, there was no shortage of fine Bud Light cans littering the hotel, from our floor to the pool to the hot tub, probably for days after we left.
The wedding itself did not disappoint.
There was
that reading from Corinthians about love.
You know, how it doesn't matter if you get burned alive, because love makes up for it...
And the drinking buddy of the groom who was asked to speak about "the eternal value of love" in the ceremony? He went above and beyond the call of duty. He Googled "love."
Guess what he quoted?
If your answer includes "
Wikipedia," you win a tasty sandwich!
Best of all (unless you're Jewish), the ceremony broke from the cliche and finished with some Wagner.
Yes. Wagner.
I can't make this shit up, people.
On the plus side, the Norse gods, who had been dormant for so long, did make sure that I was unable to put my drink down for the entire reception...
Hell, the wedding even had this guy!
The grandfather of the bride.
I love that picture, because regardless of what the other guy's saying to him, he's clearly thinking, "Well that ain't good at all... Joe-Bob, you git my rifle and hide the women-folk!"
Even at the reception, he was all action.
Seconds after this picture was taken, I'm willing to bet he did three shots of whiskey and punched a man for bad-mouthing his horse.
Wait, no, that was me.
Like any sane people, we bailed on the reception to roll out to the Houston institution
Spotlight Karaoke, where the incredible Mr. Lee holds court every night.
That's Mr. Lee with my girlfriend Niki.
If she left me at that very moment, I would humbly accept my fate...
Mental note: invest in sweet medallion.
As you can see by that smile that simply lights up a room, Mr. Lee should have been able to cure everything that ailed us, but, alas, Spotlight Karaoke was mobbed to the gills, so we couldn't get on stage.
The ensuing lull (preceded by my incessant Shiner Bock consumption) led to my calling it an early night.
Of course, any early night after a beer-fuelled day is always followed by an early morning and a creeping sense of dread.
So, naturally, I went for a walk around the hotel's neighborhood to scare up a breakfast taco.
It was on that walk that I started to figure out what was getting to me...
If you've never been to Houston (or Texas, for that matter) it's hard to imagine just how much space there is, even "downtown."
There's space everywhere. Everywhere!
I mean, THIS is what Houstonians consider an "alley":
In New York, some guy would find a way to charge people $600 a month to park 900 cars in that same space while selling kebabs from a trailer in front.
The whole city is spread out, so much so that no one bats an eyelash when they all decide to drive 45 minutes to "check out another bar" on the other side of town - and no one bats an eyelash when everyone drives themselves.
Of course, you put your beer in a koozie to keep your hand from getting cold while you drive...
The thing is - it's not enough for everything to be so spread out.
Everything also needs to be huge - shit, there's all that space to fill!
In Houston, it makes sense for a mother of two-and-a-half (on average) to drive an H2 while her husband cruises around town in a Ford F550 with
No Fear,
CCA and
Don't Mess With Texas bumper stickers - because everyone knows the F350's for pussies.
You want a giant skyscraper in the middle of nowhere?
Bam!
Go ahead, put some giant silver arches over the roads that lead to it.
Hell, oil's $60 a barrel again!
You want a strip club? Bam! Bam!
Bam! Bam! Bam!... There you go - no sense driving an extra mile-and-a-half (why would you walk when you can drive?) to get to another one.
And "gentlemen," don't worry as you leave your "club," there's a church a quarter a mile away, right next to the gun shop and the liquor store.
What's
zoning, again?
Yep. It hit me this past weekend:
Houston is the town that a bunch of 17-year old boys would build if they had an unlimited stream of money.Now before the Texans in the crowd start firing off e-mails and challenging me to "take it outside," I'm not getting holier-than-thou on H-town.
Lord knows, I certainly had my fun while I was living there (and Lord knows he's sending me to hell for it), but the whole thing just seemed strange when I came back.
Huge trucks, random skyscrapers, and so much space!
I got
agoraphobic just stepping out of the Marriott to see the nearest building 100 feet away across a highway...
And what's the point of it all?
To have all that shit and all that space, so you can work an average job but still air condition a 5,000 square foot house that takes an hour and a half to get to from work - in a truck that gets 7 miles to the gallon?
I know.
Hell, The Lord knows it's a great way to live. I'm sure it's in the Bible somewhere.
But it doesn't seem right to me any more.
That's what's getting to me: Houston was a really comfortable place to live - to the point it's hard to believe.
Houston is TOO comfortable.
I mean, at some restaurants, it's cheaper to go out to eat than to make the food yourself at home, the beer is ALWAYS cold, and your day-to-day interactions with people never involve disagreement.
In fact, to a fault, everyone's really laid back, and, frankly, that makes me nervous.
I don't think we're supposed to be THAT comfortable.
I know I've got a whole bunch of issues myself (this blog entry is probably one of them), but Houston just seems like so much yin without the yang.
Is the average person supposed to live in a gigantic house with three cars (excuse me - I mean, two trucks and a Lexus) and a hot tub?
Maybe I'm missing something, and the whole point of life really is getting a giant truck and regaling your co-workers in sales with stories about your kids' baseball games.
But I'll say this much...
I wasn't back in New York for a day before I missed a train and had to squeeze myself onto the next one, at lunch I paid too much for a tiny sandwich, and on my ride home someone gave me a good "fuck you" for no apparent reason.
I just smiled at the old lady who said it and thought, "it's good to be back."
I know.
I know...
It's so maddening to realize I'm only a four hour plane flight from $2 beers, awesome Tex-Mex and champagne rooms that are 20% of the New York price.
But I can't shake the feeling that there's a hidden cost in there somewhere.
For now, I'll be right next to you as the deli guy screams at us.
And it'll all be worth it.
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If you find yourself lost in Portland, ME tonight... Well, if you're really lost in Portland, then you probably lack the mental capacity to enjoy what I'm about to say, but nonetheless... If you are lost and bored in The Land of Ports, stop on down to Gritty McDuff's on Fore Street from 6 to 9pm. We'll be raising a glass in celebration of Corey's first comic collection, "Welcome to Barkeater Lake". There'll be beer and books for sale, with Corey ready to ruin things with his autograph. 
