Well, here I am in Texas.
Here’s the thing about Texas: for years I had built up in my mind, for one reason or another, that this was a horrible, horrible place. I had a nasty breakup right before almost moving here for a girl. A good friend of mine had two of those — one with the same girl. I work with Texans, and they’re always going on about how much better things are in the lone star state.
But here we are, and it’s really no different from anywhere else aside from the signs and little pictures of the state outline everywhere. Seriously, if not for that and the occasional “y’all,” the Dallas-Fort Worth area could be any other American city.
Been hanging out online with a couple of cool kids from Pennsylvania lately — a very like-minded married couple we met on the Bendis board. I love when you meet people you click with so effectively.
Not a lot else going on… I’m here on business all week, hope to enjoy spending some time with people I don’t get a chance to see usually. When we get back, my number one priority will be wrapping up the game. Wish me ducks!
This is our last full day in Texas.
It’s been an interesting week — not so much “fun,” but interesting. I’ve always said that I should go someplace and see what it’s all about before I comment on it, and now I have. I can now definitively say, following my experiences in Texas this week, that pretty much everything you’ve heard is true.
Guys actually wear jeans and cowboy hats and consider it “dressing up.” Highway signs — actual official printed signs — say “don’t mess with Texas.” Men talk about huntin’, fishin’ and drivin’ their big trucks, and the letter “g” is conspicuously absent from the end of most words. The women are, I will admit more attractive, and the food is amazing (more about that in a minute), but for the most part, I feel very much like a stranger in a foreign land.
Did you know that Texas is the only state allowed to fly its flag at the same level as the US flag? I don’t know the story behind it (I bet every Texan does though), but it is a little unnerving. On the surface, Dallas-Fort Worth is no different from any other major American city I’ve been to (a list that includes San Diego, Los Angeles, San Francisco, Las Vegas, Baltimore, Washington DC, Boston, Philadelphia and New York City) — all the standard trappings are here. (Or, if you prefer, “trappins.”) The major point of divergence comes from the intense local pride — a pride that, to an outsider, smacks of some secret shame or feeling of inadequacy.
I’ll give you an example. We were cruising around the very suburban Fort Worth area on our first night here, and we passed a typical suburban strip mall. In this strip mall was a Home Depot — not an uncommon site in any of the strip malls in this fine country. Only here, it’s not just Home Depot — it’s Texas Home Depot. I swear I’m not making that up. Everything here is like that. Lauri counted something like 25 occurences of the word “Texas” or the familiar silouhette of the state before she gave up and stopped counting. And this was within about half an hour of driving.
I realize now that “King of the Hill” is not so much an exaggerated comedy as it is an animated documentary. Nearly every man I’ve met here could be Hank Hill (or some combination of Hank, Dale, Bill and Boomhauer). Beer is a garnish, grilling meat is a science and love of the Dallas Cowboys is a religion. When I expressed my own football preferences — a Washington Redskins fan, and consequently, a Cowboys hater, since birth — I was reminded of what happened to the last visitor Dallas had from DC, back in 1963.
Speaking of that, I do regret not having visited Dealy Plaza, as well as a few other things we had intended to see while we’re here. The problem is, the laws of spatial geometry as I know them do not seem to exist in Texas. The same road can go in three different directions without any kind of designation, such as “north” and “south,” to indicate the difference. Or, at the other extreme, the same road can literally have five different names. The hotel from which I am now writing this is right off of 121/183/Airport Freeway. And no one seems to think this is all that unusual. On the first day I was to report to Bell Helicopter Plant 1 for work, I struggled a little to find my way in. I worked out a pretty smooth route back to the hotel, however… and I assumed it would serve me well the rest of the week. The next morning, when I went to reverse the directions, I found myself once again hopelessly lost. The problem was, when I went home, I took Hurst Boulevard (also highway 10) to Westpark Avenue to Airport Freeway. When I went back, I took Airport Freeway to Westpark… and couldn’t find Hurst Boulevard. Apparently, from the other direction, highway 10 is called Euless Boulevard. This wouldn’t have been so much of a problem if the road had also been labelled “highway 10,” but it was not. That pretty much sums up the week we’ve had trying to get anywhere.
We did eventually find a branch of Lonestar Comics however, which made us happy little geeks. Lonestar Comics operates one of the larger and more reputable mail order businesses on the web, and we were eager to check them out. It took two days and a bit of unconventional navigation to make it there, but the trip was well worth it. This store, one of about half a dozen around the Fort Worth area, was well-stocked and well-staffed. Plus, I snagged a copy of “The Dallas Cowboys and Spiderman,” which to me is the perfect way of saying “I’m a comic book geek who visited Texas.” When I get back to my scanner at home, there will be a much more indepth look at this gem, I can promise you.
Oddly, in my own backwards way, I enjoyed the work part of the trip more than the rest of it. I am glad that Lauri came along (I would miss her if we were apart for a week), but we haven’t exactly done much to report. Work-wise, I met a ton of people that, to this point, I have known only on the telephone. The nature of my work involves a fair amount of schmoozing, bribery and plain ol’ begging, so meeting people in person is definitely a plus on that front. We have managed to hang with some of the more helpful and friendly of my coworkers, including the quintessential Texan, Mr. Mike Steele.
Mike, to look at him (or even talk to him on the phone) is a dumb ol’ Texas redneck. He calls people “bubba” without a hint of irony, he’s notorious for his drinking and he never takes off his dark glasses at work. By all accounts, on the surface, Mike isn’t worth a whole lot. But there’s a whole lot more to him than surface. He happens to be the smartest Dispatcher (Bell Helicopter speak for “parts guy”) I have met in my three years with this company. My job involves a number of elements, and Mike has taught me everything I know about one of the key elements. Mike’s genius is his ability to appear as if he never does anything and doesn’t know anything, yet work circles around everyone in his department.
Not only that, but he’s also a lot of fun. I’m pretty down on Texas in a lot of ways, but Mike manages to personify all of those things that I enjoy about people from around here. He can be loud and extreme, but he’s not obnoxious. He loves to have a good time (read: LOTS OF BEER), but he’s a fun drunk. And he, more than anyone else I work with, is great for a pep talk when I’m having a crummy day. So it was pretty much a no-brainer that we’d go out with him and have a few one night. For that alone, I’m glad we came.
This is not to say that I have not enjoyed the company of my other coworkers, because I certainly have. The others are just not as colorful as Mike, and consequently, don’t make for great storytelling. I enjoyed the company of Michele and David, Suzan and Kenney and the guys in the GBS Admin office at Plant 1. I just don’t think any of them ever called me “bubba.”
The other positive thing about this trip has been the food. At a time when my personal goal is to lose 20 pounds, I think I’ve probably gained that much this week alone. From chicken fried steak to Texas BBQ, our taste buds have not been disappointed. I’ve enjoyed Mexican food of the quality that I expected in southern California, leading me to the realization that my unsophistocated American pallette truly craves “Tex Mex” over genuine Mexican food. And the steak… I’m drooling just thinking about that sucker. Thursday night, on the advice of many locals, we headed to a place called Saltgrass, allegedly home of the best steaks in Texas. (Though oddly, many people also mentioned Outback, which we have at home and pretty much everywhere else in America.)
Long story short, Lauri and I both got 24 ounce Porterhouse steaks from this place, and outside of fulfilling our marital vows, we have never experienced such simultaneous bliss before. I tend to exaggerate too much as it is, so anything I say to describe this steak will not do it justice. Take my word for it though: this was an awesome motherfucking piece of meat. It alone was worth all the things we’ve endured on this trip.
So that’s Texas, or at least this part of it.
Pros: Food. Southern hospitality. Finally, after three years, learning how to do my job. Better-than-average-looking women. The ability to knowledgeably insult Texas and Texans. Free high speed internet in the hotel room.
Cons: Shockingly open racism and sexism. All Texas, all the time. Roads by Escher. Lauri’s inability to locate the leopard-print cowboy hat that she promised a friend.
Here’s what happened when we tried to leave Texas today.
We are greeted this morning at DFW airport with incredibly long lines. So we get in the back and slowly trudge our way forward. At this point, it’s a good hour before our departure time. As we inch closer, I notice some “self-check-in” kiosks. There is no clear indication that we should be using these instead of standing in line, and the fact that hundreds of other people have opted to stand in line says to me that they’re not for us.
But we check them out, and sure enough, anyone can use them. Problem is, it’s 28 minutes before our flight departs. The cutoff time is (I’m not kidding) 30 minutes. Even though it hasn’t even started boarding yet, we have apparently missed our flight.
The lady behind the counter hands us boarding passes for the next flight to Baltimore. We proceed on to gate C-24, where we check in, just to be safe. “You’re fine,” they say. “Those are good boarding passes.”
They move our flight to gate C-4, where we again check in and find that our boarding passes are good.
The flight moves once more to gate C-3. We don’t check in this time, because we figure 2 other people already told us our boarding passes were in order.
So they start boarding the plane, and eventually our row comes up. They scan our boarding passes and… nothing. Consulting the computer, they discover that we were “no shows” for our earlier flight and are no longer in the system. Never mind what we were told at two other counters — these passes are no good. The lady at the counter does her best to find us a flight, but the best she can do is Dulles, which is about 50 miles from BWI, where our luggage is now headed.
Fearing no other alternative, we take the tickets and head back to gate C-21, where the Dulles flight will be departing in another 2 hours. Almost immediately, we’re paged over the intercom. The lady from the other gate apologizes and informs me that she found another flight to Baltimore, back at gate C-2, leaving in an hour. So we rush back down, check in with the desk and wait for the flight that finally takes us out of there.
All I can say is, Texas must have really liked us, because it sure as hell didn’t want us to leave.