No. 161 - A Drifter in the Republic: Honky-Tonk Nights and the Last Days of Old Austin

I got home last night at two in the morning. I was out with a true Texan and a German couple at the Broken Spoke—a honky-tonk in Austin where the country music is real. None of that post-’90s Nashville crap that passes for country on the radio.

I didn’t fall asleep until three and woke up this morning at eleven. I couldn’t tell you the last time I slept in that late, but after several consecutive nights of closing out honky-tonks, this middle-aged body of mine is filing for divorce on grounds of cruel and unusual punishment.

I walked down 22nd Street this “morning” to a coffee shop across from the University of Texas campus. I brought my copy of Caro’s bio on LBJ (Vol. 2) and read for longer than usual because I forgot my phone. From here on out, when I leave the house to read with my morning coffee, that son of a bitch is staying home. It felt great not having it with me.

I walked home through a maze of thirty-story “student housing” monstrosities and old houses—the kind every college town has in spades. They’re usually large because they were built for wealthy 19th-century citizens: big porches, Doric columns, rusty old fire escapes where students hang out, and makeshift ping-pong tables in the yard.

In essence, they’re exactly what you expect college kids to live in. Living rooms that once hosted formal dinners now hold plaid couches from the ’70s that don’t match, and hardwood floors once polished by maids in white aprons are scuffed to hell and haven’t been cleaned since Jimmy Carter was president.

Replacing these homes with the aforementioned eyesores is like replacing Charles Nelson Reilly with a sober CPA on Match Game ’72. One has distinct character. The other is a terrible bore.

These old houses are an integral part of the tapestry that makes a college campus—not modern mini-skyscrapers with bland facades and “luxury amenities.” Since when did college kids give a shit about amenities? Hell… give me a beat-up antebellum mansion with a roof full of lawn chairs.

I believe frat houses are supposed to be beat to hell, just as sorority houses are supposed to be perfectly manicured. UT needs to seriously consider what it’s losing—because once these houses are gone, they ain’t coming back.

I got back to my place—which was built in the 1930s and has a Slacker vibe inside and out—and watched Vermiglio, an Italian flick set in 1944 that won the Grand Jury Prize at the Venice International Film Festival. Filmmaking at its finest.

It was hotter than hell (again), so I crashed on my bed in my boxers—just like last summer in New York. Let me tell you… 90 degrees on the Upper East Side is just as miserable as 100+ degrees in Austin. What I’d do for a summer in the Rockies...

When the movie was over, I opened my LBJ book and read for several uninterrupted hours. I’ve said it before and hope to keep saying it: Caro has me in his literary grip. I can’t put his 3,000-page magnum opus down.

In addition to the marvelous writing, it’s feeding my obsession with Texas history and culture. I’m about halfway through this journey, and I’m already sad about it ending. Three thousand pages is no walk in the park, but like all Caro fans, I’ll be waiting with bated breath for the release of Volume 5—God willing, it’ll be north of a thousand pages.

Later, I turned on another movie—one I watched a few days ago: Slacker. Parts of it were filmed in the Austin neighborhood where I live, so there’s that. But what really grabs me is what Austin used to be—before the developers and the university got into bed together; before the tech industry discovered this esoteric paradise; before the economics went sideways with greed; before the locals (i.e., the people you actually want to hang out with) were taxed out of their neighborhoods.

I’m just starting to get a feel for Austin, and I’ve been here for over two months. I owe a large part of my education to a local named Mr. Lemon—a giant of a man who wears Lucchese boots, taught at Berkeley and UT, and zips around Hill Country in a Porsche.

He and I have been hitting up every honky-tonk possible in Austin, night after night. In addition to world-class music, our conversations run the gamut—from geography to history to sociology to agriculture.

There’s only so much a drifter can learn on his own. Having the help of a local—especially a highly educated one (Mr. Lemon has four degrees)—is paramount to understanding a city and its culture.

When I lived in New York last summer, I befriended a Lower East Side anarchist/poet. We’d spend Friday afternoons at the Explorers Club discussing philosophy, history, travel, religion, music, and art. And over the course of a summer, I learned about New York City by listening.

You see, if you’re a drifter—a guest in a foreign land (and let me assure you, Texas is foreign)—it’s best to keep your trap shut. Adhere to the “Two Ears, One Mouth” rule. Let those in the know bring you into the fold. I have friends who’ve done this for me in Boston, San Francisco, and New York.

If you’re open to getting out of your comfort zone, who knows… you might end up spending every night at honky-tonks and getting home at two in the morning, only to wake up around lunchtime for your morning cup of coffee.

The life of a drifter… it ain’t bad… and it ain’t normal… it’s like living in a story where you’re the co-author.

*Composed, Edited, and Published in Austin, TX