August 31, 2012
"Head Cheerleader Harley Clark introducted the legendary “Hook ‘em Horns” sign, symbolic of the University's Longhorn mascot, in 1955. He got the idea from colleague Henry Pitts, who was casting shadows on the wall at the Texas Union. Clark showed an enthusiastic student body the sign a few nights later at a Gregory Gym football pep rally. It was an instant hit — by the thousands, students extended and arm to create the now famous salute. The next day, at the Texas vs. TCU football game, Clark stood in awe as the “Hook ‘em Horns” gesture surged from one side of the stadium to the other." (via)
August 24, 2012
August 16, 2012
When I was just outta college I made a trip to New York to visit a friend. Walking through some Chelsea/Larrytown street market I came across an old wide-armed lounge chair, leather and wood. $300… with delivery. Very nearly a week’s pay but I needed that chair. Sick of sitting on the bed to watch television. I said, “how far will y’all drop-off? She said, “how far you live?” I said, “250 miles. South.” Think she may’ve just walked away at that point… mumbling in disgust, and pity.
Pixie Windsor runs Miss Pixie’s Furnishings and Whatnot, a D.C. shop on 14th Street NW that peddles well-priced finds and other eccentricities to “busy people who may not have tons of money and just want to furnish their apartment with stuff that isn’t boring” (ref). I was those people – still am those people – and while I never got that damned chair Ms Windsor and her keen eye would end up outfitting almost the entirety of my shotgun/shoebox apartment over the years. Each piece procured after one of my bi-annual extra paychecks or the refund from Uncle Sam.
Didn’t have a car, which meant the roommate and I had to schlep the six blocks home with the haul strapped to our backs like pack mules. A sorry site. Grown ass men. In order to dull the shame we’d stop by the Toledo Lounge or Asylum en route, the latter of which had phenomenal French fries and at 5p they’d start selling Shiner beer for a quarter; the price would rise $.50 every half hour until market rate, though by then no one gave a shit. Probably time to leave anyway, but it kept us coming back.
1626 14th St NW
Washington, DC 20009
August 8, 2012
August 2, 2012
We dropped into two sections of the South Platte River last week, hunting for trout in the cold mountain waters of Colorado:
First, the Middle Fork just outside Alma, which bills itself as “North America's Highest Incorporated Town” (@10,578ft); come to think of it that may be a play on the local dispensaries... the marketing materials don't exactly make it clear. Then, the Dream Stream, a three-mile section that flows out of the Spinney Mountain Reservoir; the name portends greatness and I can tell you firsthand that the letdowns are correspondingly painful.
Eight hours spent alongside the banks and wet-wading up to the crotch, and nothing doing either day. Why they call it “fishing, not catching” was the sentiment that comforted us. That and shitty warm beer. ‘Course, no one likes to go o-fer, though with these views in the foreground it was hard to get too upset.
That Filson I’ve had now for over seven years. It’s a great field bag that rarely sees the field; cut its scuffs along the thirty bus route and on most days it’s relegated to a repository for files that go with me from work to home and back again. It is occasionally stuffed with dove and shells. Wish it carried more flies and reels. I’ve vowed to get more into the sport that requires such things, as one does, certainly after a trip like this.
My dad was an avid angler and it was easy to channel his passion as I casted, over and over and over, enjoying a coveted moment of solitude when time makes no demands and concentration meets no break but for the ripple of water over rock beds and the trout that won’t rise.