Prehistoric Pranksters

I'm realizing (after 30 straight 100° days) that if you want to do anything outside, it might be better to do it in the morning. So I got up at six and drove a couple hours to Dinosaur Valley State Park in Glen Rose. It was a fun drive and I got to see more iconic Texas things. Like big ranches with gates that have their names over them. Oh, an vultures in the middle of the road eating a raccoon.

So, I get to the park as it is opening up and take the lay of the land. Apparently, the story is: someone was putting in a new concrete sidewalk and the two jamokes pictured above, or someone matching their description, ran all across it leaving footprints.

Big footprints.
It should be easy enough to track them back to their hideout and get to the bottom of this.

Except, oh wait: it wasn't a nice flat sidewalk, it was a muddy riverbed and the trails look more like this.

At first it's like trying to pick out the dog footprints in a snowbank kids were playing in. The undulation of the mud and action of the water makes it harder to see them. But after a while walking up and down, you begin to pick them out and get a feel for the rhythm.

I got there early and had the bed to myself for a half hour or so. So I'm taking my snaps and whatnot and I hear what sounds like someone sweeping a broom behind me. I turn around and it's this guy:
A big vulture and his pal. They saw me sitting on the ground not moving for a bit and figured maybe they would sneak up and eat my carcass. The sweeping sound was his wings as one touched down. It was a little unsettling as I realized I really was alone out here in the woods. Especially because instead of immediately flying away when I turned around they just ambled along casually like they were doing something else. It wasn't until I pointed a camera at them that they went into a tree to wait for me to die from a distance.

So, it took a while to get into track spotting. At first it seemed like the one or two they had roped off could have been made by bigfoot-style pranksters with trick sneakers but as you went up the river it was interesting.

Turns out these weren't by the headlining T Rex and Brontosaur either, but less-famous also-ran dinosaurs. They aren't even really sure who. But one was a carnosaur raptor-type deal. Maybe Acrocanthosaurus. Yeah, ok. The other was a sauropod. maybe Paluxysaurus jonesi. The riverbed is the Paluxy and that sauropod was named the official dinosaur of Texas in 2009 so he seems like a good candidate, but the raptor was the hit of the riverbed in this reviewer's opinion.

The wicked toes were easy to spot and made neat slices into the rock. He was way funner than the jonesi, whose tracks looked like the work of a shoddy post hole digger.

After a couple hours of this, I had seen all I needed to and it was getting to be 95°, so I hit the bricks.

Just outside of the park was another attraction: The Creation Evidence Museum. Apparently it's dedicated to proving that human beings and dinosaurs lived together at the same time, just like in the Flintstones. I was quite interested in checking this out. But being Sunday it was closed. Ah well. I left feeling sorry for T Rex and his comically-useless arms.

Like a Honey Badger

So, I think that States have cultural identities. People from Maine are different than ones from say, Vermont. The stories I heard growing up in Maine were about loggers and fishermen. Whalers. People who did ballsy things and had to rely upon themselves. I think Mainers value independence and self-reliance. Vermonters, what were they- dairy farmers? They had to rely on each other in tough times and made a virtue of it. Now they are all hippy types.

This is, admittedly, a stretch and a gross generalization.

But as I live here more, I begin to see and accept more of the Texan culture. And I think I have uncovered a key element: they do not give a fuck.

And I mean that in a positive way. Let me tell you an little story.

I was thinking about a chum I hadn't seen in a while. We used to drink cokes with a splash of coconut rum by the pool and I got to thinking that that might be a refreshing summer beverage in this heat. So I figured I would go find a bottle and maybe some sake while I was at it. I haven't had any hard liquor since I've been here, so I had to locate a liquor store. Turns out it was in the next county. Texas blue laws are weird, but whatever, here we go.

So, I GPS the store and twenty minutes later there I am. I walk in and am confronted by a podium they have set up for a promotional tequila tasting. Yes. People are bellying up to what is, essentially A BAR IN A LIQUOR STORE doing tequila shots. They had booze on ice and shot glasses and a pretty young girl laughing behind the bar.

Part of me was agog. Isn't his dangerous? Isn't it illegal? What about the children? Okay, I didn't think that last one, but I was still pretty surprised. So I do my shopping and proceed to the checkout. The bartender girl is now working behind the counter and she rings me up. She sees the bottle of Malibu and holds it up with two fingers like she had discovered something distasteful.

"Do you know about Malibu Black?" she asks.

"Ah. no."

"Well" she says "It's 70 proof...you can put it in the freezer". I tell her I think I'm all set with the regular kind. I just want a splash. But she proceeds.

"It's 70 proof. More alcohol. Same great taste. 70 proof? More alcohol?" As she says this arches her eyebrows in a manner that expresses that she has a strong opinion about my decision to stick with the regular stuff. This gentleman is a pussy is what her expression says. But I don't want the booze, plus by now I don't want to be talked into it so I stick to my guns. Reluctantly, she drags the bottle across the scanner like a transaction of such wimpiness had somehow cheapened her by proxy.

About this time, two of her co-workers come over. A smaller girl with ferret-like teeth and a lumpy guy. Ferret teeth whispers something in Tequila Bartender's ear, barely able to suppress her squealing laughter. Turns out Lumpy Guy had made a pair of numchucks out of cardboard and Ferret Teeth wanted to let her friend know right away. I am not making this up. They were in his back pocket.

So my checkout girl scolds her jokingly, telling her that this is a place of business and no place to be making or discussing ninja weapons. She looks at me and explains how difficult it is to work with these people. Ferret Teeth will not let this slur stand and begins to convince me that it is really Tequila Girl who is the handful to deal with at work.

"Oh, I believe it" I tell Ferret Teeth "She seems like a real pistol."

At this point Tequila Girl gets a reflective, faraway dreamy look in her eyes and tells me that she is not a pistol, but in fact she carries one with her. Now what caliber was that? A .40 or a .44? She's not sure. No wait, wait, now I remember: it's a .40 caliber. Yes. She loves that gun.

In a five minute errand we went from impromptu tequila bars, to implications of sissy drinking, a brief stop by cardboard numchucks and into the caliber of a young girl's handgun all with a sense of reckless glee.

And I began to understand that Texas doesn't give a damn what you think.

I got into my shiny new muscle car and sped off laughing.

Va-voom and Varoom

So, as many of you know, I bought a new car.

It's a 2012 Mustang V6. I got the leather and premium interior package. I had been thinking along these lines since I rented one at the end of last year.

It's my first non-used car and it's a damn joy to ride.

The process also represents the last tangible connection to my Portland days. I finally got a new driver's license. I had held onto my Maine one the whole time I was in Mass. Partially that was due to sentiment, but realistically, I was a traveling devil most of that time. It was dang hard to get a day clear to go run errands to the DMV. Or maybe that's just a convenient excuse.

But now I'm all legal and Texas-y and have road trip fever. I want to haul ass all over this state.

But first several notes on the car-buying experience.

It was very Texas. I heard stories about illegals trying to buy cars and being arrested by the FBI right out of the dealership (the poor woman had bought a social security number connected to the wife of a drug kingpin). I heard stories about the "big celebrities" that came in all the time. Mostly it was football players like Too Tall Jones, who I would have liked to see, but the rest were all like some guy who was in the original Longest Yard. "He's just like he was in the movie!" Oh really? Ho Hum.

Here's a typical moment. The service guy is explaining how the customer survey I'm going to get works. He's trying to explain that there is a big difference between a 5 and 4 and basically I shouldn't hold onto my 5's too tightly. A 5 counts as 100, a 4 is 50. In the course of this he says "Now, we ain't trying to say we're perfect or anything. There was only one man that was perfect and they went and crucified him!" Yes, we aren't Jesus, but please give us a 5 on our survey.

My salesperson was 62. He looked like Sam Elliot's uncle. He was a good guy and I liked that he also did what I think of as Texas things. For example, we were walking across the dealership. He was in mid-sentence and stopped abruptly, putting out a hand to stop me as well. What brought the non-stop sales patter to a dead stop? The sight of a marginally-attractive woman walking across the grounds. We both took a minute to watch her pass and then got back to business. He whistled tunelessly. Oh, Texas.

Anyhoo. So what color is my car?

Black, right? Ah, not quite. It is a fancy new color called Lava Red. It looks black until the light hits it. Then you see there are li'l sparklies. Like these:

The result is that in the sun, the car is actually a dark dark maroon-red.

Like lava or something. Well, maybe not, but I do think it's kind of fancy.

I have more dumb car things to tell you, but I need to go buy one of those windshield cover doobies because it's murder hot out here. Va voom!