I beat the alarm this morning; too wound-up anticipating the gig that will make my summer. I’ve been taking stay-cations forever, long before the economy tanked. I’ve seen enough. There’s nothing left on my bucket list. At least nothing I can cop to in public without popping up on Homeland Security’s radar. I’m not a violent man and I wish no harm to innocent people, but me and that Travelocity gnome, there’s bad blood. And the only way to settle it involves crossing state lines and that automatically gets the Feds’ attention. There’s no hurry. I have a long memory and I settle my debts (do you hear me, you degenerate ceramic runt?). That’s not a threat. It’s a guarantee.

This picture was supposed to be about football.

I opened the medicine cabinet to check what I had to fuel this spelunking adventure into the caverns of the male psyche being explored at the Texas Testosterone Festival. I took two hits of Flonase in each nostril, 40 mg of Zocor and ten mg of Prinivil. The mold spores have been wicked high lately, so I laughed at the safety warning glued to the bottle and downed double the recommended dose of Allegra, 120 mg; all strong medicines, literally just what the doctor ordered to wind the engine up to red-line and leave it there, shuddering and whining like a two-year old brat locked in a hyperbaric chamber with a dirty diaper and an empty sippy-cup. Am I reckless? Maybe, but no guts, no glory. Then it’s on to the kitchen for the real heavy-duty stuff; a Costco-sized bag of Skittles and some pork rinds. I have to modulate the energy levels needed for this long-term operation. There’s some fruity sugary goodness for an immediate lift, when alertness is at a premium. The greasy pork rinds take the edge off slowly, to prevent a crash and burn so I can push it for the two hours-plus that the mock draft will take. Young punks may giggle at me, but I’m tapping into the same mechanisms I did back in my hell-bent for leather days, 25-30 years ago, when I’d do a little bump to “go-fast” and then grab the one-hitter to stone myself sober. It’s exactly the same process, but it’s a whole lot cheaper and way gentler on the cardiovascular system. Plus, it tastes pretty good.

I went to my car, a blue 2000 Saturn SL, a perfect choice to execute a low-profile covert insertion into the very public arena of the special events center. Fly in under the radar, blend in with the nondescript surroundings. Make no sudden moves, avoid direct eye contact. That way the security at the door won’t suspect I have a camera and voice recorder, they’ll buy that all I’m carrying to document the event is the legal pad and pen in my hand. I fire up the car, the old Blue Shoe Box, and back out of my driveway and onto the road as I adjust the voice recorder that doubles as an MP3 player to blast some road tunes into my ear buds for the trip:

“I like mine with lettuce and tomato, Heinz 57 and French fried potatoes, big kosher pickle and a cold draft beer, well, good God Almighty, which way do I steer?”

I think it’s illegal in Texas to drive while listening to an MP3 player via headphones. If it’s true, it’s a foolish law. I’ve seen too many yahoos in tricked-out rides with their perfectly legal booming sub-woofers that temporarily deafened me from two cars away with both our windows rolled up to consider myself a menace to society. Besides, how could Jimmy Buffet ever be against the law? “Look, officer, I plead not guilty by reason of religious freedom. Jimmy Buffet is a prophet!” And the officer relents. He’s a Parrothead. Buffet’s acolytes are everywhere; a shadow force at every level of society, from the homeless to the corridors of power inside the Beltway. The Illuminati are punks.

I pull into the parking garage of the events center and make my way to the festival’s main hall and wander the exhibits. I’ve timed my arrival so I have a few minutes before the draft. There’s all sort of guys there. Young bucks and older guys, some with their kids. There’s even guys with their girlfriends or wives; maybe some with both. As a city, Austin can be open-minded to a fault.  I see no need to risk disappointing two women simultaneously. That’s a mug’s game.

I’m hanging out by a martial arts demonstration as the staff is setting up the tables for the mock draft up on a stage. There’s a kid getting a little out of hand, no parents around. The little heathen is getting on my nerves. Between his shrieking and the sugar rush from the Skittles kicking in, I’m a little on edge. I curse his folks for giving him sugar and caffeine, but then I notice he’s finishing a 20 oz Diet Coke. I head to the concession stand and reach past the overpriced eats to the candy display and pick up a roll of Mentos. I walk back towards the kid and say, “Hey, sport, they’re giving away free candy, you want some?” The rug rat takes the Mentos as I slip into the crowd. Will the kid be the stuff of urban legend? Am I a child murderer? If simple physics has any say in it, no. As the forces build they’ll follow the path of least resistance, jetting out from one end or the other of the GI tract long before the kid would ever explode like an overinflated party balloon. At least, that’s the theory. But the experts are taking the stage. It’s on like Donkey Kong. I’ll keep an ear cocked for any commotion.

Installment One

Installment Three

Appendix

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