In which we bid adieu to Texas, Division Day, and pork ribs, and embrace the legality of sidewalk drinking, Cajun food, and the Sammies

Zach's watching St. Elmo's Fire next to me in the
back seat and I have to begin by pointing out that
nothing is more dated nor as thoroughly bogus as
Rob Lowe's earring in this movie. I'm trying to
remember if I've ever seen this thing before, yet,
all I can think of is crawling into the VCR and
ripping his ear off his head. It's invading all my
thoughts. As, perhaps, you may be able to tell.

But we'll ignore that. We'll move on. We're growing,
as people.

Right now, we're passing one of the innumerable
stretches of bovine-laden grasslands that I'm
beginning to think make up at least, oh, eighty
percent of the United States. If cows could
organize themselves or use any sort of weaponry,
we'd be in a serious connundrum. Thankfully, they
can't. Cheeseburgers and milk, all around. This
particular pasture is on the way to New Orleans,
our first date sans Division Day and, not
coincidentally, our first date with the Sammies.
Plus, we get to go to New Orleans, which is
basically it's own little country, what with the
Zydeco and the brandy milk punch and the
ridiculously delicious butter-drenched everythings.
I went there on a vacation a few years ago and
have desperate to get back. Maybe we'll do some
Jackson Square panhandling, unless there's some
unwritten, unspoken code of busking of which I'm
currently ignorant. If so, do tell. I don't want to
get stabbed by a territorial tarot card mistress.

So, Austin. We'd been twice previously, once during
the musical clusterfuck overload known as South
By Southwest, which is at once thoroughly
enjoyable and completely overwhelming, and
another time a few months back with the
gentlemen (and gentlewoman) from Art Brut, who,
look at them, formed a rather fantastic band.
Neither time did we have a chance to actually
escape that whole 6th Street-Red River-ish area
that, essentially, is just blocks and blocks of bars,
clubs, and food to which you unfortunately resign
yourself. This time though, thankfully, we saw a
bit of the city. And lord had we been missing out.
Zilker Park is phenomenal (natural springs plus
diving boards? Man and nature call a truce), the
Colorado is always gorgeous, and, well, that's
about as far as we got. But we had an hour, so cut
us some slack, if you will.

Okay Rob Lowe. You need to not be on the TV.
Thanks.

Where was I? Austin, that's right. We played
Stubb's, which meant free barbeque, loud, amazing
sound, and...I mentioned free barbeque, right? Being
that it was our last show with the Day, we both
stormed the stage during each other's set, played
a variety of jangling percussion implements (a bit
too hard in my case---I've got the bruises and
bloody knuckles to prove it), and generally made
asses out of ourselves. Sad to see them head
home. At least we had hilariously grungy tequila
shots in a closet afterwards. We are the epitome
of style and grace.

Now, all we can do is drive. Drive and avoid the
plethora of stomach-churning truck stops here in
East Texas. Beware explicit bathroom graffiti,
low-rent porno mags, and beef jerky which,
defying all physical laws known to govern jerky
behavior, has actually expired. Sometimes, it's
best to drive until your bladder explodes so your
soul and faith in humanity don't do the same.