(The numbered long posts will resume when we are back on the road again and
something interesting and Rootey happens.)
Hey Gang,
So, anyway, here we are, still in Round Rock, Texas. The temperature has
moderated considerably, only up to 93 yesterday and, more importantly, the
humidity was only 51% at noon! 'Course, God only knows what it was by 5 PM...
You can tell that the weather is considerably improved by the fact that we
exercised the 'Beamish Boy both yesterday and today at around 1 PM. The lure
on both days has been the knowledge that there is a pretty decent Bobbycue pit
not too far from here. The sort of place where you order up your meat by the
pound ("Chop er slass?") though our effete Eastern cousins should probably
stick to 1/4 pound increments.
Eat in or carry out, the slow-cooked smoked meat is $8.49 per pound for beef,
pork loin, pork ribs, or turkey and $6.89 for hot links (a sort of pale cousin
to Central Texas Hot Guts). As a damned good example of what the influx of
elite California snobs and other computer nerds has done to this area, the pit
also offers "mild turkey sausage" though you have to ask for it as it is not
listed on the menu board.
Also, your meal is now topped off by a complimentary "sof-sarve dairy desert,
ina cup ora cone." Sigh....
So, anyway, this is not the best barbecue joint around but the meats are
pretty delishious and far, far better than the best barbecue available in Las
Cruces, so I generally eat me some bobbycue when I am out here. Sometimes I
eat nothing but bobbycue when I am out here.
The other big impact from the influx of (mostly) Silicon Valley Children is
found in the horrendous traffic jams. In a very real sense, they brought San
Jose with them!
The Alpine does not like traffic jams! And around here, going out means going
into a jam of some dimension or other.
Today isn't too bad. We accidentally find a surface road that takes us a
couple of miles up to Olde Round Rock, the site of Ol' Sam Bass's burial. The
old town is kinda neat, but no biggie. If any of you are prepared to admit
that you don't know who Sam Bass was, email me under separate cover.
Leaving old town, we quickly move onto another surface road where, much to my
delight, I accidentally find an Auto Zone clinging to the side of an H.E.B.
The locals used to pronounce that "Heeb" until the Californians introduced
them to political correctness. Nowadays it is strictly "Aitch-eee-bee." For
the sake of the very few of you who are not familiar with H.E.B., it is a
chain of very large, reasonably upscale super markets. The name is taken from
the initials of the founder whose last name, it seems to me, was "Butts."
Howard E. Butts? I think so, but can't swear to it.
Butts were and are very big in Texas politics having provided several
Governors and virtually all the Speakers of the House. The other big
political dynasty around here was the Hogg family. Of course, when they
intermarried you had the Hogg-Butts running things.
So anyway, I found the Auto Zone clinging to the H.E.B....
See, what happened was some guy who I never heard of before sent me an email
yesterday saying that he lives in Round Rock and because there are very few
real sports cars around here he would like to get together with us to have a
picture taken of his car beside my (oops! make that "Janet's!") car. And, oh
by the way, he has a Datsun 2000.
So, I emailed him back, "Sure, glad to get together with you anytime it isn't
too hot. I'd kind of like to line up the 'Pine fender-to-fender with you,
maybe have a little fun, and, by-the-bye, just how fast are those Datsun
2000's supposed to be, anyhow? And where can I find a good parts house around
here?"
So, he came back with "Well, to really get 'em fast ya gotta put on Webers and
a big exhaust pipe and mine has SU's and a little bitty skinny exhaust pipe on
it. And there's a parts house up by the H.E.B."
So, I eventually find an Auto Zone by an H.E.B.
The guy at the Auto Zone counter spins his CRT around and says, Sure he's got
a 10 pound pressurized radimatater cap and whut kinda carzit? I say "Well, it
ain't gonna be in your computer." He says, o'course its gonna be in the
computer. Whut kinda carzit.
"Itza '67 Sunbeam Alpine."
Whut kinda carzat?
"A Sunbeam, made by the Rootes Group."
Groupa whut kinda roots?
"It was made by Rootes in England."
Sounds likea forncar ta me.
"Yes! Made in England! In 1967!"
Oh, well, tain't gonna be in the computer then.
To give credit where credit is due, my loverly bride of 33 years manages to
keep a straight face throughout this exchange. She does not like parts houses
as a rule and now is convinced I had her come inside just to witness this
exchange in case I am not believed in the future. Actually, I had her come in
to get her out of the heat but a witness never hurts.
Anyway, no 10 pound radiator caps at all. The 7 pounder I bought in Lake
Charles, LA is working OK, I just think a 10 might work better. No biggie.
I have been able to spend a few minutes looking over the 'Pine in the relative
cool of the morning but have no solid leads to what the intermittent failure
is. I have plenty of ideas about what it might be but no way to narrow it
down to what it is. I still lean toward the ignition switch but that sneaky
resistor may be a possibility, too. I suspect I will not find the problem
until it becomes a whole lot more "mittant" and a whole lot less "inter."
Leaving the parts house, such as it is, we head back up the frontage road
toward the barbecue pit and immediately become snarled in traffic. It is
after 1:30 by this time, so why aren't these people back in their offices?
Well, I hate to say it, but it is the California influence again... Flex-time!
These dudes and dudettes for the most part get to set their own work hours
and, thus, are at liberty to be out screwing up my Beamish Boy by making him
sit and fry in the sunshine.
But, thanks largely to my fuming, fussing and cussing, 'Beamish is only
running about 100 C when we get to the pit. Having lunched there three times,
we find that we are now not just repeat customers but are old friends...
Since we are driving a little black sports car and I present a fairly bizarre
appearance, anyway, the staff not only remember us, they have taken us to
heart and want to know where we are from, how long we are here for, why we are
here for, yada, yada, yada.
We don't have the heart to tell them that this is likely our last meal here
for a long time to come.
We fire up 'Beamish and motor back to Dana and Brian's where Janet jumps out
and punches in the code to open the garage. I wheel in muttering about the
fact that, not only have I displaced the kids brand new car from their brand
new garage, the 'Pine has also marked the territory as his... A string of oil
spots now dot the otherwise pristine concrete floor.
Once in the house I grab a Vern from the fridge and flop down to turn on the
old slow and curmudgeonly computer.
Incidentally, it has come to my attention that some of you do not believe some
of which I write. Motel parties into the dawn. Circling bugs. Aquaplaning
'Beams. Bonnet popping 'Pines. Exploding soda pop. Plagues of crickets....
Well, I guess I just won't dignify that with a response beyond saying, God, I
wish I could make this stuff up, and please, for your own sake, don't play
around with the Vernors! Don't, for God's sake, deliberately try to induce a
Vernors melt down! You know not of what you mess with...
Cheers!
--Colin Cobb, Sittin' and Sippin' Outside Round Rock, Texas
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