I take that as second hand knowledge, especially considering that Lauren and I have done nothing but indulge our Americanized appetites for non local cuisine. We’ve eaten at every restaurant that contributed to my personal childhood obesity.

Roughly five seconds ago a man in green, loose-fitting snakeskin pants sat across from L and I and proceeded to plug himself into a small mp3 player. Why someone traveling through Chicago would need to wear his snakeskin pants to the airport is baffling. Perhaps on the other end of his flight terminal there is a lovely young woman who finds snakeskin pants overly appealing. Maybe he’s trying to get laid? Perhaps this young lady is so enamored with snakeskin that she herself is wearing it and refuses to have anything to do with another human being who doesn’t share the same affinity.

“Oh gasp” she’d say through pursed lips and while clutching her chest “How can those people wear JEANS!?” She’d probably shudder or whimper and then let a look of disgust wash over her face.

Or maybe the guy is just trying to start a new trend. After asking L about the situation her response with that he was simply “tall and rockin’,” something that perhaps I do not understand.

A few hours later, our plane lands in Austin.

Texas reminds me of my childhood. Part of it is the fact that I grew up amongst the candy flavored streets of a little town outside of Austin. The other part concerns the fact that I am perpetually a child as soon as I set foot in the entryway of my parent’s house.

I think this is a stigma that affects most people in their late twenties and early thirties, because that is the age where adulthood really sets in. Don’t get me wrong, I don’t automatically regress to my teenage self by choice. It is merely how I am perceived as soon as I cross the city limits signs.

My father, now in his late fifties is somewhat of a character. He zips around the house on a fire engine red jet scooter. You know the commercials for the scooters that are paid for by medicare? The ones where several aging seniors who look as if they could turn senile at any moment are pitching the joy of their new found mobility thanks to these contraptions? Well, let me tell you, these fuckers are fast. While juggernauting from room to room for the sake of whim my father has managed to run over all of the family pets on multiple occasions, as well as my brother and at one point, me.

I remember how heavy that fucking thing was, almost unnecessarily so, and it only took one bruised toe to learn to duck and cover when my father is on the loose.

The funny thing is, I can’t really remember a time when my dad received that scooter. He must have gotten it in the past ten years, but my memory of him actually procuring it is fuzzy at best.

I remember he used to have another wheelchair, but somewhere along the line a foldable Quickie became a mobilized base of operations for a shirtless ex-hippie, resembling Gandelf the Grey.

My brother hasn’t changed any either. He still throws blinding temper tantrums and threatens to fight anything within a three foot radius if provoked. Sometimes it’s the dog, other times his older brother, and if the time is right and the moon is full, his significant other.

I say significant other because to define what his live-in girlfriend/baby’s momma/ex girlfriend/house mother truly is takes a full course in social studies, and experimentation. She is to him what my mother never was. Unwavering, unexpecting, and easy to ignore if he’s feeling punchy or insecure. She works a full time job and takes care of our niece while my brother stays at home, makes racist jokes and drinks Miller Genuine Draft. When he first met me at the airport he was drunk to the point of hilarity and mildly insulting. That I can deal with. As the night progressed things turned from hilarious to emotional, to just plain awkward.

“I hope they shoot that fucking nigger in his fucking face,” he said to me when I asked his opinion of our new president elect.

Blatant racism is a hard pill to swallow when it strikes so close to home and this to be spewing from the mouth of someone I used to hold in high regard was disappointing at best. He laughed at my expression of disdain and as if throwing the first punch in a fistfight it became disturbingly clear that he was trying to hit first and hit hard. Usually, if the blow is surprising enough any attempts at rebuttal are shot down immediately.

So I did what I always do. I made appearances, showed up at the important, and disappeared as soon as the time was right to get trucking. Austin is a strange and crazy beautiful city and the inhabitants are nothing short of amazing. You drive fifteen minutes north, you’re in strip mall Hell. A suburban sprawl of fast food joints and clothing retailers, all looking to get in on their piece of the new money pie. Ahh, but the hidden gems are always off the beaten path. Magnolia Cafe with it’s eclectic staff and 24 hour schedule, the allure of sixth street, and the poetic escapism that is Lucy in Disguise, a costume shop that would put Madam Tusseaud’s to shame.

This Thursday night after pining over several different hats and full body costumes, my oldest friend decided that we should don mustaches and attempt to conquer the night. It’s always a beautiful sight to fuck with the system, and this time was no exception. The Austin night life scene is rife with drunken hook-ups and people looking for a one night stand. This makes it easier to introduce yourself to people whom you will never see again, and whilst wearing a faux-mustache it adds mystery and humor to the occasion. It’s amazing how a $3.99 piece of fake hair will inspire confidence and conversation not seen by most.