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