No. 169 - The Hair Dryer Called Austin
I’ve been in Austin for three weeks, and in that time I’ve seen Joe Rogan at his comedy club (with Shane Gillis, Ron White, and Tony Hinchcliffe), written an article for a Fredericksburg magazine, spent time with journalists, professors, technologists, and financiers, toured Hill Country vineyards in a Rolls-Royce, swum in Barton Springs at six in the morning with the moon still out, walked 81 miles—mostly to my grocer—bought forty books, eaten a cows worth of steak, met with a publisher about two books I wrote, browsed record shops and bookstores, sampled ten coffee shops, smoked two cigars, and somehow become a subject-matter expert in hydration.
Which brings me to last night’s cigar. A buddy came over around 9:30 with his dog to shoot the breeze, but there was no breeze. I’d picked up a couple of sticks under the delusion we’d enjoy them in cooler nighttime temps. Cooler—a comparative adjective—not cool, a run-of-the-mill adjective—and the difference is bigger than Elvis’s appetite post-1973. But that was too much to ask. The air was brittle, blanketing, obnoxious. Austin is like living in the path of a massive hair dryer—morning, noon, and night.
Still, I love this city. It’s somewhat walkable, and when it’s not, autonomous Ubers are clean and surprisingly aggressive—as if someone wired in the brain of a New York cabbie. On my daily walks I pass a skateboard park, a BMX park, two record stores, an REI, and a bookstore—all along a stream. The other day I saw a couple of guys “urban fishing” with fly rods—and catching bream.
But the heat…my God. For weeks I had headaches and dizziness. I wasn’t used to drinking so much water, but the real culprit was “dead water.” Never heard of it? Neither had I.
I was drinking normal water—like a rookie—until I got schooled in Austin-style hydration. Here, it’s always in the nineties and everyone exercises, so water is religion. Most of it, I learned, is “dead,” stripped of minerals. And if you sweat like a whore in church—like I do in Austin—you need those minerals. Regular water not only fails to replace them, it can flush out what you have. So now I buy expensive glass-bottled water (microplastics are another story) and spike it with electrolytes, magnesium, potassium, and zinc.
Understand, I’m no health nut. I once believed whiskey cured the common cold and beer was better for you than Gatorade (still do). My ideal breakfast was black coffee, a chocolate donut, and a cigar. Lunch? A chili dog, onion rings, and a cherry Coke from The Varsity. And dinner? Well, let’s just say I wasn’t above drinking it.
In my 20s and 30s, I built a life around chaos. I wasn’t overweight and managed to stay out of jail, so I figured I was winning—and maybe I was. Life’s a blast without consequences. But that’s where your 40s kick in. And let me tell you—it’s terrible. It ain’t as much fun.
Now my Austin mornings are healthy breakfasts, exercise, stretching, meditation—all the wellness crap I spent decades avoiding. Evenings: hydrating, vegetables, stretching again, and Downton Abbey before reading, because apparently screens will ruin your eyes—or your soul, or some bullshit.
If I’d come here a decade ago—man alive—it would’ve been epic. Bars, honky-tonks, live music. But I’m no longer that man. I’m a middle-aged guy who complains about smoking cigars in summer, eats vegetables, and trades Budweiser for three-dollar liters of mineral water. What happened to my life?
But it ain’t all doom and gloom for this ole boy. Tomorrow I fly to Park City, meet a friend in Deer Valley for an afternoon hike, and tee off the next morning in mid-fifties air, surrounded by the Rockies.
I could start the day with my current “healthy” breakfast—oats, honey, almond butter, bananas—or take a page from my decadent days and have a “Mr. Evans Special” - coffee, donut, and cigar.
It doesn’t take a genius to figure out which one I’ll be enjoying. Life is too short for all this healthy shit. Hell, I’ll probably have a big chew of Red Man for lunch.
*Composed, Edited, and Published in Austin, TX
