It was just this morning I was thinking that I donʼt see so many cowboys in Houston anymore. Then, just before lunch, a clown car full of them drove up to the roof of my parking garage and belched out a whole passel of dudes.
Those are not lampshades in the foreground. Those are the kinds of cases that are used to transport big-ticket cowboy hats on planes. There are cowboy hats that cost more than a MacBook Pro.
Thereʼs a stereotype along the lines of “People in Houston wonʼt ride transit.” If that was true, then Metro wouldnʼt have had two million disembarkments at the Houston Livestock Show and Rodeo a couple of years ago.
My observation so far has been that the people who are most against transit in Houston are people who donʼt live in Houston, or if they do, they live on the fringes, and not in the actual city part of the city.
Darcie likes when I make her pizza from scratch. I donʼt do it as often as I should because the dough is a lot of work.
But when I do accede to her cravings, I also make myself a “cowboy pizza.” Itʼs made from whatever I happen to find in the refrigerator that is remotely pizza-like. Peppers, onions, tomatoes, bits of random leftover meats and cheeses.
I call it “cowboy” pizza because I cook it in a cast iron skillet, since I only have one pizza pan.
I watch a lot of old cowboy movies. What Iʼve learned is that the most important part of being a cowboy is to put your hands over your head when you fall off of your horse so that nobody can see that youʼre a stunt man.
Cowboy quote of the day:
“I sing when I bathe, and when I’m drunk. And I stopped bathing.”
