Display by Label: Dallas

On my days off, I'd visit Juan. It was like my day at school. Because I was young and new to bartending. And Juan, who was a good ten years my senior, worked at one of the busiest Mexican cantinas in Dallas. He was, unequivocally, a bad-ass. And I felt like if I put in enough time observing him, that I too would be a bad-ass. So I'd drop in during happy hour and order an appetizer of chicken-spinach quesadillas. And Juan would hook me up with free margaritas because he knew I was good for it. And we'd talk about the business and I'd try to get him to tell me what made the margaritas there so damn good. But he was tight-lipped about that shit, and I respected him for it.

It's going to sound like hyperbole for me to say this, but Juan was a great bartender. He was, perhaps, the greatest bartender, at least for the type of place where he worked. And in the buzzing hurricane of that restaurant on a Friday or Saturday night, he was the calm absence of wind at the center. People standing five deep at that small bar, Chopper rumble all around in the warm Texas air, the service well ticking off orders from the floor, the flicking of bottle caps, the pouring of drinks, the placement of limes, the thwap-thwaping of dollar bills, the clinking of change—little snapshots of action taking place outside the context of time.

It's difficult to explain what exactly made him great. You could point to how he would hold the arch of a tequila pour in the air with the bottle high above it, keeping it all suspended there for a second, frozen in place, and then bringing the whole thing back, like a film wound in reverse, double speed, cutting off the pour with a snip and dropping the bottle back in the well. Then the click of the metal tumbler on glass, a twirl, before pouring it through a salted rim. You could point to that. And that would be part of it. Or you could point to more abstract things, like a correctly-placed smile to the right girl. Because even though he had a bit of a spare tire and wasn't some tall, handsome stereotype of good-looking-ness, he had the charm, and the girls would flirt with him. So yeah, you could point to that, and you'd be partially right.

But I guess if I had to peg it down, I would say the thing that made him a "great" bartender had something to do with the fact that he was always aware of what was going on at his bar, and he always knew what he was going to do next. And here's the key: when he did it, he did it in such a way that it didn't call attention to itself. It would happen, and then only afterwards you would realize, oh ... that just happened. Because he didn't move in a way that was calculated or deliberate. He didn't seem to be thinking about it. And most likely, he wasn't.

Watching instinct and muscle memory in action is a funny thing. They behave differently than premeditation, and carefully considered, conscious movement. And you can see the difference when you watch people who are good at what they do. Something takes over their presence. A sort of voodoo happens. You know it when you see it. And you know when you don't see it. And that's about all you can say about it. Instinct, muscle memory—combined with knowledge, they lead to an ability to improvise. And that's when you know you're watching something unique and remarkable. We tend to speak of this sort of thing when we talk about musicians and artists, but we don't always bring it up when we talk about everyday professions.

But it's there.

Do this: put a bottle of beer on a rubber bar mat and take a flat-style bottle opener and, without holding onto the bottle with your free hand, snap the cap off of it. Do it as quick as you can. Just lift that sucker off with one quick motion. It's doable, but not easy. And you'll look awkward doing it. And you'll probably knock the beer over on your first couple of attempts. Now, try this: with your free hand, try pouring a drink while the other hand opens the bottle. Knocked anything over yet? I think the first time I knew Juan was "great" at what he did, was when he did this. He was in the middle of pouring a drink, and as he held the pour with one hand, he took his opener out of his back pocket with the other, popped the caps on a couple of Corona bottles. Then he stuck the opener back in his pocket as he finished the pour, the caps clapping on the floor at his feet, the bottles just standing there on the mat, frozen in place, like a couple of stone pillars. It had been so effortless, non-calculating. He didn't think, I will pour this drink while I open these bottles. He just did it. And the expression on his face—that was part of it, too. Nonchalant, he didn't expect to be congratulated or anything. Part of what made it cool was that he did it all. But most of what made it cool was how he did it. And the fact that there was some doubt in my mind as to whether or not he even consciously knew he had done it.

I'm going to sound pretentious and haughty saying this, but I'm going to say it anyway, because I really don't think I sound pretentious and haughty nearly enough these days: if you sit at enough bars, you'll notice that the vast majority of bartenders really shouldn't be there. They don't really understand the job, and the truth is they don't really care. And most of them get by just fine that way. Because in general, we don't really care, either. We don't expect a lot from our bartenders. We just need bartenders to pour our drink and do it in the least amount of time possible. Also, the drinks we order, in general, are no-brainers. As a result, old-style bartenders who know "real" cocktails are on the decline. When we do find a bartender who knows a bit more, or who goes above and beyond, we're pleasantly surprised maybe, but we don't give it more thought than that. We don't necessarily want or need our bartenders to be "professionals" anymore.

But the problem isn't just that we expect less. It's also the fact that most establishments seem to care more that their bartenders are sexy than whether or not they're any good at what they do. As a result, you tend to find a lot of bartenders who think being professional means being beautiful and having attitude. They think it's those things that make them a bad-ass. I'm all for having attitude. Sometimes it can be important, as a means to an end. But it's not an end in itself. Also, I'm all for being beautiful, but if I wanted to have those people pouring my beer, with their cleavage and manicured nails everywhere, I'd go to Hooters or a just skip the pretense altogether and visit a titty bar. Frankly, I'd much rather somebody like Juan serve my drinks. The pros, the ones who seem to have nothing to prove, who wipe out your ashtray before you even realize it, who pay attention to your pace and who know even before you do that you'll want another drink or that you're finished, who can carry on a conversation while holding down the bar, who make their presence known by the fact that you never really need to ask them for anything, they're the ones operating on instinct and an understanding of the game. And they're increasingly hard to find.

Okay. Pretentious and haughty diatribe over. Back to your regularly scheduled programming ...

link to this | comments (1) | File:  Game_Theory  Dallas  Chewing  Art 

Saturday morning, shoveling snow from our driveway before heading to Newark for a flight. Five hours later, it's all sunshine and t-shirts, sipping margaritas on the patio of the Blue Goose in Plano. A soccer dad with shin-guarded kids beside us. And, on the other side, Harleys rumbling in the parking lot. Tattoos on display. Double D moms with "Don't Be Jealous" t-shirts. Suburban grey-beard banker bikers, bandana'd and leather-vested and flaunting their mid-life crises a month or two early. This strange mix of cultures. This strange mix of seasons. Because it's 70 degrees and sunny in early March in North Dallas. And we're sitting on a patio—the same exact one—where ten years ago I would've been found serving drinks. And not much has changed, except the name on the building. Time travel happens, ya'll.

Then it's light-weight longsleeves on E&K's back porch for pool, and beer on draft, and a broken E string. And man, that sentence would read a lot differently if you just changed a single letter, wouldn't it? Here there's another Harley rumbling, asleep on a lawn chair. Magnolia splayed out like a morning prayer. And us laughing over a shed in Jersey that's never been opened because there's mostly been a river of ice between me and it. And an empty shed is a scary prospect in Soprano country. And wow, jackets and gloves and shovels and boots seem so far away. Three hours northeast.

Sunday, the wind and rain began while we puzzled at Mom's. 2000 pieces. And the pot roast made some smoke, so we opened the windows. And then left them open. Because puzzling can make you hot—all that brainpower spent matching shapes and colors together. And it's nice to do that kind of work with a cross-breeze.

And then the rain got heavier. And the winds got colder. And last night, on the third day of March, North Dallas saw what might be described locally as a "blizzard" of snow, short-lived, but furious and heavy. Leaving a blanket of white on the flat landscape. Jackets and scarves back on. Pushing wet snow off the windshield with our arms. Then, us in our all-seasoned rental, headlights screaming against this horizontal army of flakes. Feeling like Star Wars at warp speed. Passing through another weather wormhole.

Then this morning waking to sunshine and highs in the mid-50s. Dallas will be back to t-shirts and margaritas in no time. And there's a bit of the sadness, because they don't grow Tex-Mex in North Jersey. The patios, chips and salsa, and salted rims. But that's what time travel and weather wormholes are for.

link to this | comments (6) | File:  Weekend  Weather  Travel  Friends  Family  Dallas  Chewing 

Dallas last week is now a whirl of memories, all good. Even the heat felt nice. It was a proper heat. The kind that bakes your ankles. The kind that causes instant sweat on the brow and lower back. It's not the kind of heat you can hide from. It's the kind you face head-on. When you leave your house or car or office it's just you and it. And you let it fall over and envelope you because to resist is to go around feeling defeated. To resist is to be angry. And so you accept and embrace it. The heat. The sweat. You accept all of it. And I did. And it was good.

Days spent at my old office, hashing out project specs. Barbecue and Tex-Mex for lunch, sending my now yankee stomach into a fitful tossing and turning. Catching up with work-mates. An environment strangely familiar and yet long ago and distant.

Birthday dinners for my mom, who is approaching another landmark date, several decades to the north of 34. Which is the age I'm fast approaching. Stories of her father. Who I never knew. Born in 1898. Died a year before I was born. I'm becoming increasingly fascinated by him. By the man he was. Because maybe there are clues there, in the stories my mom can tell. Clues about who I am. So I search for the clues in her words. And in her photos, which are kept in a plain-white department-store gift box. An afternoon spent scanning many of them onto hard-drive, because I needed to.

Beers with Jeff and the Farmers late into the night under a rumbling, electric sky. Here, I am amazed by a man-room the size of a three-car garage. The time is comfortable. Unassuming. Real. Stories of bears, some that were and some that might have been. Adventures in a candy cane.

Meals with dad, who is now — for the first time since 1973 — completely an 'empty nester.' His youngest at grad school in Atlanta. His oldest moving wildly around the northeast in search of roots. Like C and I, he is selling his house. But he is contracting, not expanding. It's a time of change and decision. He has thoughts of moving out to Maryland.

And right now, back in Baltimore, in our house that is finally free of dust and paint fumes, on a day that no A/C is needed because it's in the low 70's, I find my personal undertow pulling back to Texas. Because — despite the heat — things hurt less there.

link to this | comments (2) | File:  Friends  Family  Dallas 

I'm back home. In DC. We flew in last night. And even though I truly loved seeing friends and family in Dallas, I am very relieved to be back on the east coast again. I feel grounded. I woke to the familiar sounds of car horns and sirens this morning, which kind of gave me a warm fuzzy feeling. And I'm ready to re-train my legs on how to do this thing called walking.

The last few weeks have been a mixture of fun, chaos, laughter, and frustration. Because it was the holidays, I can't really say it was at all times relaxing. But overall it was great. There were many days spent catching up with mom and sis, dad and bro, which was really good and heart warming, and long overdue. There were late-night fireside chats with the Hill-Farmers - miss you guys! Let's see what else . . . James, thanks for the great chops on the grill. Yancy, thanks for the incredible lunch at Texas de Brazil. And Dave: I always loves me some Blue Goose.

I hung out a lot at Dunn Brothers Coffee in Addison, which has great coffee and free wifi. I highly recommend this place if you're in the DFW-area and looking for a place to get online and work. Just stay away from the sandwiches. They are purely there for emergency hunger situations only. Do not expect anything that tastes remotely like the ingredients described on the packaging. Or any other ingredient that might be described as 'food,' for that matter.

For Christmas weekend, my long-time best friend Paul - who I've known since I was four and who is also something of a brother to me - and his wife Erica drove up from Houston to spend a couple of days with us for what amounted to extended periods of eating and talking followed by shorter periods of silent, uncomfortable digestion.

And in between all of the festivities there was driving. Lots and lots of driving.

I stayed offline for most of last week, which means I've got a lot of catching up to do. Oh, and my new pair of jeans is telling me it's time to either get back to the gym or face up to a larger size. I'm going to opt for the former.

Bring it on, 2007. I'm friggin' ready for you.

link to this | comments (5) | File:  Dallas  DC  Family  Friends  Ho_Hum 

This morning I went for an early morning walk in my mom's neighborhood. It was a beautiful, crisp morning. About 45 degrees. Slight humidity. My breath was thick and white. The moon above was still faintly visible in the early blue sky.

All seemed right. All seemed good. I followed the neighborhood road to the big road. And I walked along the big road, because there was a sidewalk next to it and it seemed okay to do this thing. It seemed okay to walk. But, as I trekked, a slight fear took hold. I'm not sure they use the sidewalks for people here. There must be some other malevolent purpose. Perhaps it's to roll out the coffins of a dying humanity. But I don't know. I'm only basing this on what I saw. And what I saw was no people.

They don't do humans in the concrete lanes of North Dallas. You know: humans. As in 'human beings.' I didn't see one on my 45-minute jaunt.

But I did see a lot of another, much larger creature. These beings soared by me feverishly on their four short, stubby legs, each one wearing big black circles for shoes. They made loud screams and drew deep menacing breaths. I couldn't understand them because their language was full of power and intimidation.

I looked, but I didn't see any of the creatures like me - the slower ones on two legs, the ones with skin and nails and hair and teeth. Not one.

It was scary and disorienting. And when I got home, I locked the door behind me.

link to this | comments (4) | File:  Dallas 

I'm not a migratory creature. At least not in practice. In theory, I love to move around. And once I'm doing it - once I'm in the midst of ramble - it feels good and right and true. I mean, there's nothing better than a little change of environs, right? But in practice, I'm served a good helpin' of lumpy stress right before I travel a long distance for more than a couple of days. I become possessed by an irresistible urge to tie up every possible loose end I can think of - even if it's something I've been putting off for weeks or months. Shit! I have got to paint the bedroom. Right now. If I stay up all night, I'm sure I can get it done, and still have an hour or so left over for packing. Okay, maybe the painting example is a little extreme. I mean, I'm not crazy - I'd never actually attempt anything more than a small bathroom the night before a trip.

One thing my pre-travel angst usually does include is a good tidying-up. And what it all really boils down to, you understand, is a putting off of the packing process. Because that's when things get hairy. So the longer I can find something to do that is not packing, the longer I can stay somewhat sane. And sober. Because, for me, nothing spells a-l-c-o-h-o-l-b-i-n-g-e better than an empty suitcase and a morning flight. This is the moment of truth, brother. Where you must face the cold reality that, despite all your planning, you will forget something. And, chances are, it will be the-one-thing-you-absolutely-did-not-want-to-forget.

So I will begin that journey now. I hear a glass of Dewars calling softly to me. If you're in Big-D. I look forward to seeing you soon. If you're not, I will miss you. Especially C, who won't be making the trip to Texas until later. Baby, without you, I may become a quivering lump of jello by the time you find me at Christmas.

By the way, one loose end I did tie up this afternoon, even if I didn't paint the bedroom, was a changing of the header graphic above, which has long needed rotation. I meant to change it for the fall, but now that's come and gone. So time to do something for winter which, after all, is my favorite season.

link to this | comments (4) | File:  DC  Dallas 

So it took the Cowboys to finally rope in the Colts. I'm glad the streak is over. Colts needed some payback for beating the Broncos. I was rooting for the old home team all the way, even though it is a capital crime in DC to root for any team with stars on their helmets. Looks like the Romo era is off to a good start.

link to this | comments (6) | File:  Dallas  Football 

The data is a little out of date, but it looks like if you're from LA, you might start investing in a new lung now . . . Also, I was happy to find out that moving to DC from Dallas brought me one step down on the ladder of smog pollution. (via Laundro)

link to this | comments (0) | File:  Dallas  DC  Health 

Interesting that Big-D is moving into the #4 spot in the US "metropolitan areas," bumping out Philadelphia. (link via sarah) In the battle over largest Texas cities, I've always rooted for Houston, since that's where I grew up. And actually, if you just compare Houston to Dallas, the former wins, hands down. But for some reason, Dallas always gets to include Fort Worth in its area census numbers. I think Houston should start counting Galveston to balance things out.

link to this | comments (4) | File:  Dallas 

As I write this, I'm on the second leg of a plane ride back to DC. We had to layover in St. Louis. Which meant two take-offs and two landings. Double the pleasure. I'm not the biggest fan of flying, and tonight's game has been a turbulent one. Lots of choppy skies. Apparently, somebody threw up in the back row on the first leg. Thankfully, I wasn't witness (in site or smell) to this unfortunate event.

There was also a woman on the first leg who was transporting a parrot in a cage covered with a blue towel. She put the cage under the seat for takeoff and landing, but the rest of the time, it stayed in her lap while she read Atlas Shrugged. I briefly considered the irony of a bird taking a plane ride. If I were a bird on a plane, I suppose I'd spend most of the flight criticizing the pilot's skills. And how pissed would I be if the plane crashed - talk about adding insult to injury.

The trip to Dallas was awesome - some pics here. Good weather. Good food. Good conversations. And since it was also my birthday, good gifts! I got Keith Jarrett and Bill Evans CDs from my dad, a nice jacket from my sis, some books, and a menacing fish-gutter knife from Jeff, who is helping me get prepared for this spring's fishing trip. And I was successful on all aspects of my to do list, even the things I had no control over, like watching the Broncos defeat Dallas in overtime on Thanksgiving day. To be fair, the Cowboys actually deserved to win the game, and if it weren't for a botched field goal attempt they probably would have. But that didn't make the victory any less sweet.

A couple of bonus things I was able to add to my list in Dallas town:

1. A rigourous, sleep-deprived game of Cranium at J&A's
2. A visit to J&Y's
3. Martha Burks and The Band at Brooklyn. They were missing the drummer I liked from last time, but they had a kick-ass fill-in bass player, who really drove the band, despite it being his first time to play with them.
4. Shots of Jagermeister at The Londoner.

It was an all-around good time and it was great seeing everybody!

link to this | comments (3) | File:  Travel  Friends  Family  Dallas