Category: Beer

Almost Five Things That Are Good

10/2/2020

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Everything is a mess right now and poor America is sadly trending negative. Here are five things that are good:

Deven Green—her Friday couch concerts are the capstone of my week. Deven Green makes the world a better place!
The new Elizabeth Hand novel, The Book of Lamps and Banners. I just started it and it’s wonderful and Cass Neary is one of my all-time fave fictional characters.
Beer—always. Plus pandemic beer deliveries!
Turkey—always. Plus turkey probably has at least as many anti-viral benefits as hydroxy, and tastes better.

Well. Four things are all I can come up with right now. Maybe the world is worse off than I thought.

Better for you than hydroxychloroquine!

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Pandemic Status VIII

10/2/2020

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Well, of course all indices are way way way up this week. We’re in pandemic chaos around this here sea to shining sea.

Thank god for beer deliveries.

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Covid Remembered and 911 Too

9/11/2020

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This is a little flag I got on the first anniversary of 911, September 11, 2002.

I was driving a cab in those days, and I didn’t have a personal car then, and it was time for me to turn my criminal history into the cab company (yes, unlike Uber and Lyft, Yellow Cab tried to make sure their drivers weren’t criminals). So I had to take a bus all the way up to the DPS office on North Lamar, and a bus back, with multiple changes each way—and the bus back got caught up in the 911 ceremony. We all had to get off the bus north of the capital at 15th and Trinity (I think I remember). I had to walk all the way down to 6th and Congress to catch the next bus. What a hassle. Speeches were being delivered—I don’t know who was speaking. I pushed my way through the crowds, very annoyed, and somewhere along the way someone gave me a flag, and I still have it.

(Here's what I wrote about the 10th anniversary of 911).

So much for that day. Maybe next year, on the 20th anniversary, I’ll post my memories of what I experienced driving a cab on 911—memories which, as you might expect with me, have a heavy dose of stupid tragic absurdity.

This photo below is from our current tragedy.

This is a beer I drank during my last visit to a beer joint. February 26, 2020. Johnson City, Texas, just after I did a workshop at the wonderful Johnson City Library.

At the time, I didn’t know it was my last visit to a beer joint.

On February 26, President Trump said of covid victims, "...if you look at what we have with the 15 people and their recovery, one is—one is pretty sick but hopefully will recover, but the others are in great shape."

Yeah, right. I mean, no one really believed that at the time. Few people. I pay attention to the news, and while I sat in the beer joint I was figuring out what I might need to stock up on.

Of course, Trump himself didn't believe what he was saying. (Does he ever?) Three weeks earlier he told Bob Woodward, "It goes through air, Bob. It's also more deadly than even your strenuous flus. This is deadly stuff."

Me, I like beer joints. I like hanging out and drinking beer in them.

When will I again get to hang around a beer joint safely?

A thousand people a day are dying of covid—and those people did not need to die.

I think about those dead people—dead and not coming back—and I think of their families, and I think of the dead people to come, and I think of the Trump cultists who are just fine with the body count. It will take a generation to fix (maybe, sort of) the damage America has suffered the last four years.

All indices up. Rage especially and Heartbreak especially.

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That One Time I Fell on My Head

6/29/2019

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Lowell Mick White, scarface, scar, handsome, Dobie Paisano Fellow

Scarred!

I suppose you've wondered how I got those handsome scars on my nose....

Well. One night I was at the Deep Eddy drinking beer with MDC, who was down visiting from Alaska, talking mostly about fly fishing. After a while we left the bar to go get something to eat, and crossing the street to where MDC was parked, I was trying to demonstrate a roll-cast pickup—demonstrating with an imaginary fly rod—when I TRIPPED OVER MY STUPID FUCKING UNTIED SHOELACE!

Bang! I weighed about 220 pounds then, and all 220 pounds came crashing down on my poor nose. BOOM! My hands didn’t catch my fall, of course—they were in position to hold an imaginary fly rod. BANG!!!

Did I get knocked out? Maybe. I don’t know. Probably. I guess MDC rolled me over, because I do remember looking up at him, and he seemed concerned.

MDC took me to the Brackenridge ER. There were some cops there, and I heard one of them ask MDC, “So, why’d you beat up your buddy?”

MDC said, “Officer, it was the damnedest thing I ever saw….”

Inside the exam room, the doctor asked, “Is your nose broken?”

Before I could answer he grabbed it and twisted--

OUCH!

“It is now!” I said.

But it wasn’t. He gave me six stitches and sent me home—without pain meds! No pain meds for head injuries, a nurse explained. That's pretty rude. I'm still mad about that. I was fucking hurting.

MDC dropped me off—I was living in the basement of the Deep Eddy in those days. Don’t know what time it was—it was still dark. I went into my apartment and got my camera and took a photo of the blood I lost. Nice!

Lowell Mick White, blood, pain, head injury, nose, scars, scarface

Somewhere in some box there is a photo of me taken the next day—my face is all swollen and I’m a glorious fucking mess! It’s a great picture. If I ever find it, I’ll scan it in and post it as an update….

But, anyway, that’s the story of the scars on my nose. I’m quite pleased with them, though I’m still regretful and angry about the lack of pain meds at the time. Pain is no fun, even in memory.

Lowell Mick White, Professed, academia, higher ed, fiction, teaching, novel, bad behavior

But...you know what? You can assuage my pain (past and present, physical and emotional) by buying a book, or by leaving comments on Amazon or Goodreads. Why not start with Professed....?

"Professed is a novel filled with the struggles and rivalries and oddities and many weirdnesses American higher education--favor-dodging, ex-girlfriend avoiding, grade-dreading, plagiarist-busting, dissertation-reading, office-mate annoying, litter-box spilling, book-stealing, unprofessional forbidden lusting, unprofessional forbidden lusting-fulfilling, lost cat-chasing, wrist-breaking, inopportune body-betraying, boring boyfriend-dumping planning, dead professor missing, committee-meeting texting, student misfiling, classroom failing, hidden Confederate-history uncovering, book-writing, student advising, professional dysphoria-feeling, drunk-tank loitering, book discussion-leading, unwise nasal behaving, paper researching, non-academic schooling, sink fouling, New Years' kissing, celebratory pool-playing, stranger-disemboweling, paper-writing attempting, paper-writing failing, drinking-game playing, incomplete-taking...yet, as the characters fight to fit into a rapidly-changing institution, medicating themselves as best they can with sex, drugs, and literature, learning actually happens----Somehow."

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Writings and Editings XXI

9/29/2018

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In truth I haven't been as productive as I should have been. But some work has been done--and of course what is to come!

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Where I Lived Then Now IV

9/15/2018

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Austin, Lowell Mick White, That Demon Life, Deep Eddy, best Austin novel

The 700 Club.

I lived there 1980-1981. My apartment was small and cramped, and there were roaches. My apartment was on the other side of this recent Google Streets photo, on what we called The Elite Inner Circle (it wasn’t a circle, more like an ∟), on the second floor, looking out into the upper branches of a big live oak.

I chose the 700 Club because of its location—on East Riverside I’d had easy access to beer and fast food, and the 700 Club was close to beer--The Deep Eddy Cabaret, which became a big part of my life for many years. I went out and saw bands and did youth things several nights a week--to Club Foot, Raul's, Duke's, the Alamo Lounge, the last days of the Armadillo--but the Eddy was where I hung out.

My neighbors were a mixture of old people and students. There was a WWII ex-POW who spent much of his time loud and drunk. There was a woman who spent much of her time typing—you could hear her out in the courtyard under the big oak, and I liked to think she was writing a novel, my friends thought she was “just practicing,” while in reality typing was probably her job. There were a couple of Scientologist bikers. Just before I moved out there was a pleasant man and woman, both married but not to each other, who kept an apartment for afternoon trysts.

For a while there was a massive ex-convict living in the apartment below me who one night got mad and started pounding on his ceiling—my floor—with a broom handle. I was sitting with a couple of friends trying to watch the baseball playoffs. After a while we called the cops, and a pair of cops talked to the convict, and then came up to talk to us. “He’s not really rational,” one of the cops said. “If he comes to your door, don’t let him in.”

Good advice there, chief.

(The convict later disappeared—a parole violation, I think.)

The big event that happened that year was the Memorial Day Flood.

We had a barbecue that Sunday afternoon, as we often did, with chicken and ribs and beer and what-all, and the day was cloudy and humid and no one expected it to rain—the newspaper forecast said there was only a slight chance of rain.

Lowell Mick White, Austin, weather forecast, Memorial Day Floor, That Demon Life

But about the time the food was ready it did rain, not hard but enough sprinkles to force us to move from the courtyard up to my apartment. And after we ate, several of us walked down the hill to the Eddy.

The great KB was tending bar that night and we drank beer and played pinball and some of us watched the Indy 500 and then it began to storm—really storm. We stood in the doorway and watched the lightning show for a long time and drank more beer and played more pinball until it was closing time and KB forced us out into the rain and we walked up the hill in the storm. Notorious TWS came over to my place and we ate barbecue and watched Bridge on the River Kwai until TWS got sleepy and headed back to his house. None of us had any idea what was taking place elsewhere in the city….

I moved out a couple of days later. My lease was up and I went off to spend a few weeks with my grandparents. When I came back in August I moved into the building next door and into another story….

700 Club pros: Close to the Eddy.

700 Club cons: Roaches, tiny, cramped.

700 Club verdict: It was okay.

Lowell Mick White, Austin, Memorial Day Flood, That Demon Life, best Austin novel

Photo taken the day I moved out--probably May 27...

That Demon Life, Lowell Mick White, lust, laziness, Best Austin Novel

You might be interested in my novel of Austin, That Demon Life....a novel of lust and laziness....

“That Demon Life has got Austin in its sway, or at least this novel's motley crew of characters. A horny judge, a defense attorney with an attitude, an entourage of petty criminals, a dating service maven, a self made internet porn star and a boy toy or two—they're all slouching toward Sixth Street and beyond. This is a fast-paced, hold-on-to-your-bar stool satire, a hilarious, stumbling romp through law and disorder, urban ennui and its after-hour antidotes, Texas-sized lust and doom.”
—Alison Moore, author of The Middle of Elsewhere and Synonym for Love.

Read That Demon Life now!

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Where I Lived Then Now (III)

6/2/2018

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window to pee from, crime-ridden neighborhood, My Sharona, Mother Earth, beer, fun

This is where I moved after Redneck Village—the Tivoli apartments just off Riverside. My roommate was the infamous/legendary TWS and we had many adventures. My bedroom was in the center unit shown, and my window was that double one not quite over the front door.

The photo below is more or less the view from my window—that large flat surface is the roof of a strip mall and was, in 1980, the roof of Mother Earth, after it relocated to East Riverside. In the winter and spring of 1980 “My Sharona” was a big hit and all the cover bands at ME played it—ALL the bands! Every evening when I was trying to study the opening quickly-tedious bomps of “My Sharona” would come thumping up across the street and through my window…

Austin, Mother Earth, youth. beer, fun, 1980

Mother Earth, the people you want to be with, beer, happy hour, Austin, 1980

But—I loved Mother Earth. I’d go over for happy hour two or three times a week. It was cool and dark, and there were a bunch of middle-aged drunk regulars, and I enjoyed hearing their stories. Blind Bobby Doyle played piano on many nights—he was really good. Sometimes I’d stay on into the evening, sometimes I’d go home to do classwork, and on other nights I’d head on out to Antone’s or the Armadillo or wherever. Mother Earth was great.

And—there was another bar in the strip mall, TA Station, and a Conan’s Pizza, and a Safeway. Up the street was the Back Room and Paula’s Playpen. So there was plenty of food and beer and fun.

One night TWS and I were out and about, one our way to Spelman’s, and some cops pulled us over on West 6th, just past Lamar. TWS was driving. The cops made him walk the line, touch his nose, etc. The cops said that while TWS had obviously been drinking, he wasn’t drunk drunk. But he needed to go home—and so we drove back to our place, with the cops following. And then, of course, we walked across the street to Mother Earth. Austin!

There was some crime in our neighborhood, too. Someone (?) left the patio door open one night and we woke to find that TWS’s coin jar had been stolen, along with a few dollars I’d stupidly left sitting out. And then I got the battery stolen out of my pickup—not once but three fucking times, and the third time the thieves also cut the fucking battery cable, which was a pain to replace. And then someone(s) stole the license plates off my truck!

Oh—that window in the top photo. There was a kid named KH who used to come crash on our couch, and I got tired of him hanging around. One morning after Mother Earth closed he was out there knocking on the door—and so I urinated out the window on his head. Ha!

Also that window—one night in late April or so I was studying and heard police sirens, and then saw flashing lights. I looked out my window. A car was pulled over right in front of my place. There were also two cop cars with three cops. As one cop approached the car, it tried to get away. Bang! Bang! BOOM! The cops opened fire on the car—two pistols and a shotgun. Whoa! Then the cops pulled the people out of the car and beat the shit out of them. I went outside to watch, along with most of my neighbors.

So, overall…

East Riverside pros: easy access to beer and fast food, a window to pee out of.

East Riverside cons: crime, KH, police shooting people, “My Sharona.”

Verdict: my least favorite Austin residence.

best novel set in Austin. best Texas fiction, lust and laziness

You might be interested in my novel of Austin, That Demon Life....a novel of lust and laziness....

“That Demon Life has got Austin in its sway, or at least this novel's motley crew of characters. A horny judge, a defense attorney with an attitude, an entourage of petty criminals, a dating service maven, a self made internet porn star and a boy toy or two—they're all slouching toward Sixth Street and beyond. This is a fast-paced, hold-on-to-your-bar stool satire, a hilarious, stumbling romp through law and disorder, urban ennui and its after-hour antidotes, Texas-sized lust and doom.”
—Alison Moore, author of The Middle of Elsewhere and Synonym for Love,

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Sleazy Rumdum Bars!

4/14/2018

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When people talk about the lost bars of Austin, the places that usually come up are Liberty Lunch and the Armadillo World Headquarters, and both those places are full in my memory of fine interesting people and stories. But there are other interesting lost places, too—does anyone remember the Alamo Lounge? The Malamute Lounge? Paula’s Playpen? TA Station?

Does anyone remember the sleazy rumdum bars on the 200 block of Congress?

Oh, the sleazy rumdum bars! They would open at 7am, which was perfect for a young ne’er-do-well heading home after a long night of misadventure. They were unheated in the winter and barely air-conditioned in the summer. They were full of story-telling people down on their luck with no place else to drink.

A few things that happened there:

We got kicked out of the Dew Drop Inn after we loaded up the jukebox with all the quarters we had and played nothing but “Kung-Fu Fighting.”
We got kicked out of the Dew Drop Inn a couple of months later when we loaded up the jukebox with all the quarters we had and played nothing but “Roxanne.”
The Veteran’s Day Parade in 1979, just after the Iranian Hostage Crisis began, and the barmaid from the Stop Inn (we just called it BEER because of the sign on the front) was crying, “I just want to go off with the cowboys! I just want to go off with the cowboys!” (The guys on horseback weren’t cowboys but mounted soldiers from Fort Hood).
That barmaid from the Stop Inn/BEER—she was from England. How did she get to the US? And how did she get to BEER?
Playing pool at the Tradewinds and I was aiming at the 8-ball, and a fight broke out between two women. A serious boom bang brawl, and the women were grappling and cursing and gouging and rolled across the pool table, and I paused my shot until they rolled off the table to the floor and out of the way—and then I made my shot, unperturbed.
An old guy at the Tradewinds (old-seeming then but probably younger than I am now) who knew where the gold was. The gold—in the Sierras east of sacramento somewhere. He knew where is was, and thought we should pool our resources and go pan it out of the streams. Putting together the plan took a long time and a lot of beer. “We’ll need a dog,” the guy said. (We ended up not pooling our resources, not getting a dog, not going to the Sierras, and the gold is still there).
My birthday, 1980, when my roommate woke me up to go to the bars with the immortal line, "Lowell, you have to transcend the bullshit!"

As always, I relate these stories for your edification, not your emulation….

(Photo from the Austin History Center).

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My Desk c. 1983

4/10/2016

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I was house-sitting in a beautiful compound on Long Island Sound just up the coast from New Haven. House-sitting and working on a novel. The typewriter belonged to the house. Note beer can. Note backstage passes from the Clash and Squeeze. Note notebooks, folders, paper. Note photo of cast members from All My Children, a show I loved and found inspiring.

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Ordinary Horrors

Almost Five Things That Are Good

Pandemic Status VIII

Covid Remembered and 911 Too

That One Time I Fell on My Head

Writings and Editings XXI

Where I Lived Then Now IV

Where I Lived Then Now (III)

Sleazy Rumdum Bars!

My Desk c. 1983

Lowell Mick White

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